


Redamancy

by NightAuthor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - No One Ring, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, As Much As I Love Them, Beast!Thorin, Belle!Bilbo, But It Is Definitely, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fem!Ori - Freeform, Female Bilbo Baggins, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, I promise, Male-Female Friendship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Specifically The 1991 Movie, Unlikely Ship, Way Too Many Tags, Which Does Not Include Fíli or Kíli, also of course, fem!Bilbo, fem!Nori, fem!dori - Freeform, of course, unsurprisingly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-06-18 16:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 103,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15489615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightAuthor/pseuds/NightAuthor
Summary: Certain as the sun, rising in the East, tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme...





	1. April 26, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s where they meet King Charming/ but she won’t discover that it’s him/ ’til chapter three!

“Watch it!” 

Bell ducked automatically under the bag swinging toward her, barely able to muster the concentration for a half-hearted “Excuse me”, let alone a scowl.

Traversing Lake-Town barely took any focus anyway, after ten years of it. Her novelty had long since worn out, and the Men had stopped paying her the courtesies of a guest when they realized she and her father weren’t leaving any time soon. Still, for all the disadvantages of being a Hobbit in a Mannish town, there were times when it came in handy. 

This wasn’t one of them.

Someone moved into her path too quickly for her to dodge them, and she found herself sitting on the rough wood, her load of herbs scattered over the platform. Wincing, she grabbed the basket and tried to salvage as much of her harvest as she could, but with every second, more of it was kicked into the spaces between planks or trampled beyond use, and she had to snatch her hand back more than once, narrowly avoiding being trampled herself.

“Move back! Oi, I said move away!” From anyone else, the rescue would’ve been welcome. As it was, Bell had to fight to hide a grimace before she looked up at Alfrid. He leered at her under his one scraggly brow, and only long practice kept her from shuddering. “Well? Aren’t you going to say nothing?”

Gritting her teeth as unobtrusively as she could, Bell gave him a tight-lipped approximation of a smile, then went back to collecting her scattered supplies. A few handfuls were within arm’s reach of Alfrid, but she simply ignored them, standing and brushing off her skirts. “Good day, Alfrid.”

Her turn away from him was cut off by a guard moving in place beside her, and Alfrid smirked. “Now, Bell, that’s no way to thank your savior, is it? The Master will be ever so distressed to hear how unwell you’re feeling, in that cold little fisherman’s hou—”

“My thanks, Alfrid,” she only managed to unclench her jaw by clenching her fists, but listening to him insult Bard was impossible. “And please, tell the Master that I am, of course, grateful for his…” _‘Disgusting, creepy, lecherous…’_ “Generous help, and for your…” _‘Even more lecherous, skin-crawling, repugnant…’_ “Timely intervention, and please, tell the Master that neither he nor yourself need bother yourselves on my account.”

_‘Please, Eru, let them both take the hint!’_

But Alfrid just leered at her again. “Oh, but we can’t leave the Master’s intended to fend for herself, now can we?”

Bell resisted the urge to tug the already-high neck of her dress higher, barely. “As I’ve told you and the Master before, I couldn’t possibly accept the Master’s suit. Not when he’s such a…” _’Disgusting old man_.’ “High-ranking man in Lake-town. A poor midwife would hardly be a fitting match.” _‘And_ _he_ _would be a poor match for any Hobbit, let alone a Took-Baggins_.’

With a wolfish grin, Alfrid countered, “Ah, but you’re not a midwife, not anymore.” 

She’d suspected that the Master had brought in the woman from Rohan, but Alfrid’s smirk confirmed it. Tongue-tied by the curses that rushed forward, she gave Alfrid a jerky nod and turned to go.

A hand clamped down on her wrist, pulling her back toward Alfrid, and she bit her cheek to keep from crying out; his hand was clammy, sickly-pale against her darker skin, and he stunk of brandy and worse. “The Master’s not a patient man, girl.” Dark eyes raked her form hungrily, and she suppressed a shudder. “And neither am I.”

He released her arm abruptly, but she caught her balance easily, and kept her back straight as she strode away. She ignored the crowd parting in front of her just as she ignored her wrist throbbing: by gritting her teeth, blinking hard, and refusing to show an ounce of weakness. It took her a few minutes to reach the house, but she listened carefully for a moment. Sigrid and Bain’s voices were closest, Tilda’s was next, but her voice carried more than Bard or Bungo’s, so they were likely all three downstairs. 

Hitching the basket up to her shoulder, she opened the door as quietly as she could with her free hand, letting go just long enough to put a finger to her lips as the two elder Bardlings came in view. Bain’s expression darkened and Sigrid pursed her lips, but he hurried over to close the door and Sigrid set out a bucket of water to rinse the herbs in before helping Bell with her jacket. Both of them looked ready to bash Alfrid’s head in when they saw her wrist, but they said nothing.

Silently, Bell moved to the bench and dumped the basket’s contents into the water, submerging her hands far enough to hide the bruises a few heartbeats before the three others emerged from below. The icy water dulled the pain enough that she was able to smile genuinely at her father, and he grinned back at her, still laughing over something or other Bard had said.

“Bell, love, you almost missed us! How was the harvest?” He came over as he spoke, and kissed her cheek; she closed her eyes at the touch, and rested her head against his for a moment before lifting a handful of sodden leaves from the water.

“Not as fruitful as I’d hoped, but enough to last us a few days.” He hummed consolingly. “You’re going out?”

Bard answered from near the door. “The weather seems fair enough, don’t you think?”

Humming as she thought, she propped her elbows on the sides of the bucket. “Yes, it’s warm enough, but I think there’s a fog rising. Be careful.” For a moment, she didn’t hide anything as she met Bard’s eyes, knowing he would neither be surprised nor offended by her worry. Her father was all she had, and he was as much a friend to Bard as she was. Bard would protect him.

Bard’s eyes flicked down an instant later and widened marginally; remembering her bruise with a jolt, she hid her arms again, glad that the men’s heights meant that her father hadn’t been able to see what Bard had. Her father laughed; she called up a quiet smile even as she turned to him, but saw that the subterfuge wasn’t needed, as he was hugging Tilda, facing the other way. “See, child? Nothing to worry about!”

Tilda laughed, returning his hold gently; at eighty-eight, Bungo was more frail than he had been in the Shire, and though Bell had inherited her sun-gold hair from him, his was chased with silver now, and she thought the color would be entirely gone within another year or so. Tilda, by contrast, looked the picture of youth, though she was only an inch or two taller.

“We’d best be off.” Bard spoke gently, and Bell mouthed her thanks while her father looked the other way.

“Right, right.” With a wave from Bungo and a pointed look from Bard, the men were gone, and Bell released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, half-slumping over the bucket.

“That bad, Aunt Bell?”

Tilda’s concern brought a genuine smile to Bell’s lips, and she brushed her knuckles over the girl’s cheek, knowing she wouldn’t care if she got dripped on. “No, love, I’m just tired. Sigrid?”

A packet of fabric plopped onto the table a moment before the girl herself sat beside Bell, still looking mutinous. Sighing lightly, Bell fished out the rest of the plants and spread them over the table to dry before turning to face Sigrid. She wrapped Bell’s wrist with the economy of practice, silent, but Bain wasn’t as willing to hold his tongue. “You—”

“Bain.” Bell spoke quietly, but the boy subsided anyway. It was an old argument, and one in which neither side would or could give ground. “Any customers?”

He sighed. “None. I even asked ‘round, but they’re all going to that—”

“Bain!” Blue eyes met silver as Sigrid and Bell shared a wryly commiserate glance. Bell let Sigrid continue without speaking with her again. “She’s done nothing but find work.”

“Steal work.”

“Be given work,” Bell corrected as Sigrid tied off the wrapping. “There’s a good chance she was invited.” Sigrid and Bain shot almost identical alarmed glances at her, while Tilda looked between them, clearly confused. With a mock-snooty air, Bell took her hand. “Now, what shall we have for supper? Roast goose? Or shall I air out the peacock?”

As Bell had hoped for, Tilda giggled, worry forgotten. “Goose! And the gold plates!”

Her enthusiasm was enough to make the elder siblings laugh with her, and soon all four of them were occupied with making light of the all-too-meager pickings.

 

Bungo breathed in the fresh air like a man starved; he was truly grateful to Bard for offering the two of them shelter all these years, but he was a Baggins, not a Brandybuck, and the smell of fish tended to be unpleasantly overpowering in the town. A hawk circled overhead as Bard drew his barge level with the dock, and he offered Bungo a hand. Bungo took it gratefully; the step wasn’t especially high, but it felt higher every day.

He was getting old. In the Shire, he might have brushed the allegation aside, but Men rarely lived as long as he, and when he lived with a Man who was less than half his age and beginning to grey, it was impossible to deny. In a way, he found it… not amusing, exactly, but an odd twist of fate. Belladonna’s father had lived to be older than any Hobbit before him, and Bungo and his love always thought she would outlive him, and yet here he was still, without her. 

He wandered as he thought, as was his custom; Bard paid him no mind, accustomed to Hobbits’ need for greenery. It had been that need that undid them, really. They’d heard no rumors of the Mirkwood, and by the time they realized the state of it, they didn’t have the supplies to go around. They went through, and the sickness of it spread through them. Belladonna had given Bungo most of her food, not that either he or Bell had known until it was too late. Belladonna had faded away, mere hours before the Elves found them. 

She was still buried there.

In a way, Bungo thought it was fitting; she’d always loved stories of danger, menace, and now she would rest forever in a forest legendary for exactly that.

The forests surrounding the Elven palace and following the river were still untouched by the blight of the rest, and he couldn’t help but smile, sadly, as he ambled through. He missed Belladonna terribly, but every day brought him closer to seeing her again, and in the meantime, Bell made him more proud than he could say. Life in Lake-town was hard, but she’d risen marvelously to the challenge. It was unfortunate that the new midwife had cost her so many clients, but there were babes enough to be born, and she could still sell her remedies until business picked up again.

And while his little tinkering could hardly be called a hobby, the Master and a few of the other, more affluent of the town’s citizens did occasionally purchase them. He’d never even taken notice of the common little gadgets in the Shire, but then they’d come here and he’d realized that the Men had no such knick-knacks. He’d often tinkered as a fauntling, but he’d left the hobby behind when he realized it was no fitting pursuit for any self-respecting Baggins. 

Here, though, it was different. And Bell enjoyed it as much as he did, often helping him with the trickier bits, now his hands weren’t as steady as they used to be, and once he’d begun to indulge, he’d started thinking of other things he could build, new things. Not all of them were possible, not when he had to be careful not to overreach his abilities, but he enjoyed thinking of them all the same.

His ambling brought him into the sunlight again, and he smiled. Life was hard. But moments like this couldn’t be touched by anything.

He tilted his face up to the sun as he sat, smiling to see the same hawk still circling overhead, and closed his eyes, thinking of inventions.

A shadow swept over him, but he smiled through the shiver. Just a cloud.

The wind picked up, oddly warm, but it was refreshing, truly.

The birdsong faded, and he felt a chill unrelated to the returning shadow.

The shadow didn’t fade, this time, and he opened his eyes just in time to see an enormous, slate-grey beast land before him, front paws first, like a cat. This, though, was no cat, nor any beast Bungo had ever seen, though he’d heard of it.

A dragon. The dragon of Erebor, he assumed. For all the stories he’d heard since coming to Lake-town, he’d never been able to imagine it. Its wings were huge, as long as its body, at least, and half-translucent as they folded against its sides. Standing tall, it blocked out the sun, towering over him, and he couldn’t look away from its wide, bloodstained mouth for a long moment, imagining just how easily it could bite a Hobbit in two.

If he hadn’t been watching its mouth still, he would never have believed it truly spoke. “I’d thought to find treasure, and instead I find you. What are you?” It brought its head close, and his eyes flinched shut of their own accord; he couldn’t move a muscle if he tried. Sniffing, it circled him, never sounding more than a few feet away, the whisper of its scales surrounding him. “Not Man, nor Dwarf, nor Elf.” Its voice was rolling thunder, shaking the very ground itself, and he shook, too. “Well? What are you?”

It was a demand, not a question, and he tried to answer; mouth too dry to manage even a syllable, he had to swallow several times before he could even whisper. “A H— Hobbit.”

There was no sound for a moment, then an explosive snort, not unlike a pony’s, nearly blew him over. “You needn’t shake so, Master Hobbit. I don’t eat anything that’ll talk back to me.”

The words alone might have been comforting, but the hard tone, coupled with it resuming its circling, only strengthened Bungo’s dread. “But y— you do want some— something.”

Another snort, this one almost more of a huff. The whispering continued for a moment, then stopped as it spoke again, now directly in front of Bungo, looking down on him once more. “Entertainment. I’ve treasure enough to fill a kingdom, but I’ve never before found any that would make conversation.”

The musing tone made its meaning clear enough, and Bungo’s eyes shot open as his heart pounded. The dragon was still looming over him, but its head was tilted slightly, and if Bungo hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was smiling at him. Even if it had been, it could only be cruelly. “No— I— I can’t!”

It snorted again, and leaned slightly toward him, icy eyes shadowed. “Oh?”

“Yes!” Bungo squawked, “I have a daughter, duties!”

“Really, grandfather?” The sarcasm fairly dripped off its words; part of Bungo was surprised to hear that dragons could be sarcastic.

“Yes! I— I fix things, make things!” And the amount of money his gadgets brought in was paltry compared to Bell’s earnings, or at least they had been before the new midwife came. But still, it was the best he could think of.

“Fix things.” Bungo nodded desperately; the dragon cocked its head again. “At your age? Your daughter helps you, does she?”

If he hadn’t been so terrified, he might have frowned; what did it mean, bringing up Bell? “Yes, she does.”

A low sound rumbled through the ground; Bungo shied away from the thought of it being a growl. “Then you have a choice, Master Hobbit. Either you or she will be my treasure. I’ll let you go back to your home tonight to say your goodbyes. Whichever of you emerges in the morning will be taken to join the rest of my treasures. Have you heard the songs of a dragon’s wrath?” Terror paralyzed him; the dragon continued without waiting for an answer. “If neither of you leave the town, the Men will burn with you both. Try and escape and the same fate will await them. I need less light to see than Hobbits do, I daresay. I’ll be watching. You have until dawn.”

With that, it leapt up, opening its wings with a snap, and the torrent of wind as it flew away was enough to leave Bungo flat on his back. He stayed there, shaking, for some time, and watched as the dragon flew up and up, until it looked no larger than a hawk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the Beauty and the Beast AU that's been in the works for almost six months. I hope you like it; I really do! Daily updates this week, so keep an eye out!  
> (Sorry about all the exclamation marks, but I'm just so excited! XD)


	2. April 26, 2934, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want so much more than they've got planned...

Silence rang in the house following Bungo’s account. Numbly, Bell went to the pot of stew hanging over the fire and stirred it. Her head was reeling. Dragons may have been real, but they didn’t just randomly threaten to abduct people, and they didn’t let people go. 

Right?

Tilda whispered quaveringly, “Da, is Smaug going to burn us?”

Bell froze, the very idea stealing the breath from her lungs. For all that Bard looked older, he was younger than her by a few years, and she thought of him as a brother. Sigrid, too, was like a little sister, and Bell’d helped raise Bain and Tilda; Tilda, especially, was almost Bell’s as much as she was Bard’s. The idea of anyone in Lake-town dying, even Alfrid and the Master, was abhorrent, but these people were her family, as much as Bungo. She’d lost her mother already. She couldn’t lose anyone else.

Sigrid made a quiet, strangled sound in response to Tilda’s question. “No, we won’t burn.”

Bard spoke at almost the same moment, hollowly. “That wasn’t Smaug.” 

Bell’s head snapped toward him while the children exclaimed; Bungo looked no different, still huddled under a blanket, but Bard had his head in his hands. Bain was the first to recover from the shock. “Then who was it, Da?”

Slowly, Bard shook his head, straightening enough to meet his son’s eyes. “I don’t know. But Smaug was last seen sixty years ago, and my Da used to tell me stories of him. Smaug was as big as Lake-town, red as fire, with the head of a snake and his wings attached to his arms. What you saw, Bungo, that wasn’t Smaug.”

“Then who was it?” Sigrid’s voice shook; whether with tears or anger, Bell couldn’t tell, but she caught the girl’s eye nonetheless and nodded to the pot, brows raised. She knew how useful a convenient distraction could be. Sigrid shook her head slightly as she gathered herself. Dubious, Bell nodded, but just resolved to keep an eye on her in case she changed her mind.

That was what Bell was using it for, anyway.

Bard shook his head again. “I d—” He froze. After a moment, he sat back in his seat, expression considering. “A few years after the last time Smaug was seen, a group of Dwarves came through the town. There were rumors that they were led by the King Under the Mountain, that they’d slay Smaug and restore the wealth of Dwarves and Men alike. Nothing ever came of it, and there’s no way to know what happened, of course, but perhaps they succeeded, partially. Perhaps they slew Smaug only to wake another beast. Perhaps Smaug died on his own and this is a creature not of Erebor.” He sighed, rubbing his brow. “There’s no way to know.”

But he was wrong, Bell thought as she turned back to the pot. They knew one thing for certain. The risk was too great. If the dragon didn’t have its way, they would all burn. That was unacceptable.

Bard gave a frustrated sigh. “I just don’t understand why it would want you!” Silence for a beat. “You know what I mean. You say it doesn’t want to eat you, but after sixty years of nothing, why would it emerge now only to demand a single Hobbit?”

“It…” Bell’s heart lodged into her throat as her vision blurred; her father sounded decades older than he had that afternoon. “It said it thought I was a piece of treasure from above. Perhaps it’s curious.”

Bell’s stomach dropped, and her heart leapt higher, clearing her throat. ‘Treasure from above’? His hair! The hair she shared with him. If that was all the beast wanted…

“What else did it say? What did you say?”

“It wanted more entertaining treasure than gold, I think. Treasure that could talk. And it seemed interested that I could fix things.”

Still nothing Bell couldn’t do in his place. Her heart was pounding, now, enough that she could barely hear them keep talking behind her.

“And its terms? The exact words.”

“I… I have to leave Lake-town in the morning to meet it, and if I don’t, or if I try and escape…” 

The silence spoke for itself, and lasted for several seconds before Bard broke it. “By dawn, you said?” Bungo must have nodded, as Bard’s tone turned confident. “Then we have until dawn to think of something.”

Pulse still racing, Bell couldn’t stay another moment, and walked quietly downstairs; the men didn’t notice, and Sigrid shushed Tilda quickly. There was little enough privacy in the house, but the room Bell shared with the girls was private enough for her to think, at least.

She would go in his place. She had to, there was no other choice. None but either letting her father walk into his own death or through inaction, bring death upon the entire town. The latter was unthinkable, the former, unacceptable. 

The dragon wanted treasure who would talk back, who could fix things. She had her father’s hair and her mother’s silver eyes, which could surely only work in her favor, and she was as capable an artificer as he was, if not more so. Besides, the dragon hadn’t said a word about penalties for a replacement. And dragons were supposed to like riddles, weren’t they? So even if it was irritated by her attempt to take her father’s place, she could at least try to argue it out of taking its anger out on the town.

But how would she do it? She’d have to go before dawn, obviously, but she couldn’t go yet. And it wasn’t likely that Bungo or Bard would be able to fall asleep, so sneaking out would be impos—

But she’d just found herbs for sleeping medicines that day. Fresh supplies were always the most effective. But how could she give everyone the same dose? 

Barely, she resisted the urge to smack herself. She wouldn’t. She’d knock out her father, Bard, and Sigrid. Bain and Tilda would probably fall asleep on their own, and even if they didn’t, they trusted her. If she told them she knew what she was doing, they’d listen.

She’d have to leave notes. One for her father, apologizing and saying her goodbyes, all the things they wished they could have told her mother. One for the children, telling them how much she loved them, how proud she was of them, how she knew they’d grow into a man and women who’d make anyone proud. And one for Bard, warning him off of trying to rescue her, threatening to disembowel him if he got himself killed because he ignored her wishes. And asking him to take care of Bungo. Bard was a good man. If she asked that of him, he’d do his best to fulfill it.

She had a feeling that the letter to her father was going to turn out to be a small book, but even so.

She wouldn’t take any food or clothes; the dragon would simply have to provide the former if it wished to be entertained, and Tilda would fit into most of the latter. She’d take her tools, just in case, but no supplies. And a torch, or at least a flint. The dragon had said it could see in the dark, but if she wanted to get its attention, there was no better way. Besides, it might be able to see in the dark, but she couldn’t, and if she was going to get any distance away from Lake-town before dawn, she’d need a torch.

Her little boat was more than capable of getting her to shore, or else she wouldn’t be able to use it to collect herbs, and the guards tended to be chosen for their loyalty to the Master rather than any degree of abilit—

The Master! How would he react to her disappearance? 

For a moment, her resolve wavered. He’d be livid; could she bring that on her family?

As she bit her lip, her eyes fell closed for an instant; flames raged behind her eyelids, and her eyes flew open as she gasped, heart pounding again. She couldn’t bring that on her family. The Master would rage, but a Man could never be as terrible as a dragon.

An idea began to grow, and she bit her lip again. If the Master thought she were dead, if the dragon were seen carrying her away, or if her little boat were found smashed on the rocks, and especially if she left instructions for Bard to spread the word that she’d been out fetching a flower that only bloomed at night or some such drivel, then there would be nothing he could do. She wouldn’t just be lost to him, she’d be lost to everyone, and so he wouldn’t be able to blame anyone.

Her father called her name, finally noticing that she was gone, and she looked up slowly, letting out a shuddering breath. Time to begin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you can't tell, the summaries are all going to be lyrics from one song or another in the 1991 Beauty and the Beast. Am I the only one who automatically sings the songs in my head when I see them written someplace? I always wonder; I know everyone can't be like that, but how many people are there that are?  
> Anyway, credit goes to utanga, texaspeach, and nimacu for being awesome betas!  
> À bientôt!


	3. April 27, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And for once, it might be grand/ to have someone understand…

Thorin circled around an air current, watching intently for any movement on the shores of the lake. Of all the changes he’d had no choice but to grow used to, flight was the only one he truly enjoyed.

He never would’ve expected it, a Dwarf enjoying the feeling of nothing but air beneath him, looking down on the world—

Well, maybe it did make a bit of sense.

But even so, it would have been unimaginable when he was a stripling in Erebor, and unthinkable after Smaug came. If, instead of giving him a map, key, and his signature on the contract, Gandalf had told him that his quest would end not only with him becoming a dragon, but enjoying any part of it, Thorin would have laughed in his face. And then probably cut his beard off in retaliation.

But fifty-two long years of this cursed life had cooled Thorin’s ire somewhat. Not entirely, but a fiery temper was far less dangerous when it didn’t result in literal fire. More than one of his Company were much more flammable now than they had been, and he could not, would not, risk them for the sake of a few seconds’ satisfaction.

Out in the open, high enough that the frigid air bit at his lungs and flames wouldn’t be noticed in broad daylight, he often exhausted his supply of fuel intentionally. He still didn’t know exactly what it was, but he needed it to flame, and it usually took several days to build back up to dangerous levels. That had been why he’d been out that afternoon, though the deer he’d caught had been a nice surprise. 

And then he’d looked down and seen gold and silver, just out where anyone could take it. 

For all that Dwarves were vilified for their greed, he was sure he’d never been half so entranced by gold as a Dwarf as he was now. He’d dived down so quickly that he still half-thought he’d left his sense behind for a few seconds; why else would he have done what he did?

But even once he’d seen that the gold was hair, was a person, not a pile of coins, he hadn’t been able to walk away. Fly away. Either. No, instead he’d frightened the old man half to death. But he couldn’t say that none of his thoughts had been his own. The thought of someone new to talk to was unnervingly tempting, and even if it hadn’t been, the old man had said he could fix things. Thorin had serious doubts as to how capable a Hobbit could be, compared to Dwarves, but neither he nor his Company had the combined strength and dexterity to repair Balin or Dwalin, and their state had gone on long enough. Balin hadn’t been able to use his left ‘arm’ for three years, and Dwalin had been silent for at least eight. Possibly longer, but he wasn’t exactly chatty at the best of times, so there was no way to know for sure.

Balin had been furious with him when he returned to Erebor to detail what he’d done, and most of the Company had, as well, but this was one matter in which Thorin truly wouldn’t budge. Once his cousins were fixed, he’d likely let the old Hobbit go, but it wasn’t as if they could hire a craftsman. The fact that Balin was a talking clock and Dwalin was an obnoxiously-mobile music box was just adding insult to injury, really.

But Hobbits were honorable people, Thorin thought he remembered, even if they were exceptionally timid. A few months and perhaps he’d be able to procure the man’s word that he wouldn’t speak of what he’d seen in Erebor.

But that was assuming the old man was the one who came out.

Thorin’s heart stuttered. All the man had said of his daughter was that she assisted him. For all Thorin knew, she could be a child, or nearly as old as the man. But perhaps even so…

The curse didn’t specify romantic love, of course, but given that Thorin loved his Company fiercely, and knew his brother, at the very least, did in return, romantic love seemed to be the only option left. The love of family, of friends, of brothers- and sisters-in-arms, all those he had, and had since before the curse was cast. But after Smaug, and then after Azanulbizar, he’d had neither time for nor interest in a wife.

He would never have sought out a Hobbit woman if he had been interested, but perhaps that was what was missing. Not romantic love, but that of and for a member of a different race. But Gandalf was no Dwarf—

But then, Thorin had never loved Gandalf as anything, really, even a friend, and he doubted the wizard felt any affection for him, either.

Whichever way the ore ran, the Hobbit woman, if she chose to come, might well be Thorin and the Company’s only hope. The Arkenstone dimmed more with every passing day. In another year, it might go out entirely, and Thorin shuddered to think what might happen then. The Arkenstone was part of the curse, after all. Smaug had made sure of it. In the past, Thorin had hoped that if he waited out the curse, that it might fade with the Arkenstone’s light, but now he wasn’t sure. He felt weaker than he had a year previous, and though his temper had faded somewhat, the cursed instincts that being a dragon brought seemed stronger than they had a year before. 

He was beginning to forget Erebor as it was before Smaug came. He was beginning to have to stop himself from thinking of raiding Lake-town for its gold. He was beginning to fear that there would be nothing Dwarvish left in him in a year’s time.

Movement caught his eye, a flicker of starlight on gold, and he growled. Even as high as he was, the sun was nowhere in sight. The old man was trying to run. But—

His growl cut off of its own accord; the little treasure was on the shore nearest Erebor. Was the man trying to surrender himself early? Why would he leave his family a minute before he had to?

A spark of light lit up the gold even more, then grew into a torch. The figure waved it overhead, and Thorin dove without a moment’s thought. He might think the man was mad to leave his family early, but he obviously wanted to leave sooner rather than later. Thorin would oblige.

He landed feet-first, as he had before (a tricky maneuver, but his preferred tack), only to see that the man hadn’t come, after all. A young woman stood before him, seemingly about the same age Ori had been at the beginning of the Quest, though he knew Hobbits didn’t age like Dwarves. She had more courage than her father, he had to grant her that. She was clearly shocked, and he could smell that she was frightened, but wide eyes and gritted teeth were the only outward sign of her fear. Her eyes trapped him much as her and her father’s hair had; they were silver— not grey, as he’d seen in Men, but properly silver, shining in the torchlight as much as her hair did, and a stunning contrast against the red-brown burnt umber of her skin.

She’d dropped the torch when he landed, but made no move to reclaim it; the shadows distorted her face, but he thought she was probably fair, though her clothes were more suited to a woman three times her age, and completely unlike the Hobbit clothing he remembered from before the Quest. Fashions may have changed, of course, it had been over fifty years, but he doubted they would have changed so much, so quickly. Instead of a scandalously low-cut neck, short hem, and short sleeves, her dress covered her nearly head to toe. It was possible that there were shorter sleeves under the jacket, but he could see the collar and hem of her dress clearly. 

He could almost hear Dís yelling at him to stop staring at the woman, but it was a fight to get the dragon part of his mind under control; that part of him wanted to grab her now, take her back to Erebor and drop her in the treasury, right beside the Arkenstone. But he couldn’t do that yet.

“Why have you come now?”

She startled, just barely, at his voice; again, he was a bit impressed at her control. But she answered quickly, not even a hint of a quaver in her voice. “To offer a trade.” He couldn’t help but rear back, incredulous, but she continued. “Everything you wanted from my father, I can do, and for longer.” 

Confused, he tilted his head a bit. “I gave your father the choice of letting you come in his place. Did he not tell you?”

Her expression had twitched into surprise as he spoke, but she closed her eyes as he finished, jaw clenched. “No. No, he didn’t.” She looked up at him resolutely. “But that only makes it more likely you’ll take me instead of him.”

Curious, he tilted his head a bit more. “He lied to you and you’d still do this for him?”

She glared at him fearlessly. “I didn’t cross the Misty Mountains to let my father spend his last years rotting in a mountain! Which, I suspect, is exactly why he lied to me. The difference being, by the time he realizes I’m gone, it’ll be too late for him to put a stop to this.”

Bringing his head level again, he bent down towards her. The fear returned to her scent, but he’d never have guessed to look at her; from this distance, he could hear her heart, but it wasn’t half as fast as her father’s had been. Trouble was, he didn’t know what Hobbit hearts were meant to sound like. She swallowed, but didn’t move other than to lean slightly back, which didn’t really do much to increase the distance between them. He could see her face better now, and he’d been wrong, before. She wasn’t fair. She was beautiful. For a Hobbit.

“And when I take you, just how long will it be before the townsfolk rally to your rescue?” He hadn’t truly expected a response, so the way her expression immediately darkened was intriguing, to say the least.

Quietly, she answered, narrowed eyes never leaving his. “You needn’t worry about that. I can count the number of people who’ll miss me on one hand. All but one would have no hope of leading an army, assuming they could raise one, and the last has mouths to feed, including my father. He won’t risk them by trying to save me.”

He scoffed. “You expect me to believe that?”

She raised a brow. “Of course I do. It’s the truth.”

He was about to respond again, but he paused, realizing that her heartbeat never wavered, her scent never changed. She was telling the truth, or at least the truth as she understood it. It was still possible that she had a secret admirer who’d come running, but she truly didn’t know of anyone who’d be both willing and able to come to her rescue. He reared back thoughtfully; she shifted her stance slightly, and he realized she had a small bag over her shoulder. “Clothes?”

She blinked at him for a second before following his gaze, then shifted her stance again. “No, I assumed there’d be fabric, at least, wherever you’re taking me.”

She was still telling the truth. He tilted his head. “Then what did you pack?”

She looked more than a bit suspicious, but opened it and pulled out a handful of examples. “Tools.”

Before he could stop himself, he hissed at the bits of metal. “Abominations, more like, or Orc-made. You’d do better with bare hands than those pieces of garbage.”

Brows snapping down into a fresh glare, she flung the handful at his head; to his surprise, every one hit him, a miniature hailstorm. “I’d like to see you find Hobbit-sized tools this side of the Misty Mountains! They’re the best Lake-town has to offer, miserable as I know they are!”

He blinked at her, disbelieving, for long moments after she finished. She was a Hobbit. She was the definition of bite-sized for nearly everything in Middle-Earth. Soft, physically weak, built for leisure, not work or battle. And she’d just shouted at a dragon. And thrown things, with impressive aim. And her outrage at the insult to her tools, even the moment of (harmless) violence, would have suited any Dwarven craftsman. 

Passion like that was a sign of someone not only willing, but eager to learn, and to work. This might work out after all.

He nodded briskly. “I accept your offer.” 

With that, he took hold of her with one forepaw, launching himself into the air easily. She gave a strangled shriek, but he ignored her. After that one cry, she was silent for the few minutes it took to return to Erebor, but he was careful with her as he landed just inside the ruined gates. He made sure to set her on her feet, but she collapsed anyway, breathing ragged, eyes wider and more shocked than when he’d landed in front of her. 

He watched for a moment to be sure that she wasn’t hurt, then pointed to the gate. “As you can see, there’s no door, no lock, no barricade. That won’t change. But you agreed to come here. Leave this mountain and I will consider Lake-town forfeit.”

Still shaking, still catching her breath, she met his eyes slowly, then clenched her jaw and nodded, eyes more mithril than silver.

“Good. This way.” He started walking toward the forges, but stopped after a few seconds as he realized she wasn’t following. When he looked back, she had stood and taken a few steps, but she was just staring after him, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. A low growl escaped him; she startled, eyes widening, tension showing in her neck for an instant before settling as her breathing quickened. What was she…

If he’d still had proper hands, he would have smacked himself. She couldn’t see. Still growling at his own stupidity, he stalked back towards her. She fell back a step or two as he neared, then held her ground, hiding her fear again.

“Wait here.” Her expression morphed into confusion in the instant before he turned away again, but he didn’t wait for her response. The advantage of not leading her was that he could go as quickly as he usually did, racing through the halls and taking short bursts of flight when the space permitted. It took him a minute, perhaps, to reach the common area the Company had claimed, when he suspected it would have taken close to an hour for little Hobbit legs. 

One of the reasons the room had been chosen was that it had no doors, and the archways were large enough that Thorin barely even had to duck his head as he entered, and could unfurl his wings a bit. Deafening shouts greeted him, and he rolled his eyes. Most of the Company, led by Balin and Gandalf, were angry that he went to Lake-town at all, even if he returned empty-handed. The others, namely Frerin, Bofur, Nori, and a loudly-clattering Dwalin, were more irritated that he hadn’t brought anyone back with him.

“Bofur.” The stocky candelabra ambled forward with a mock-salute, even as the other redoubled their shouting. Thorin stretched a wing down to him so he could clamber up, even as he addressed some others in the Company. “Nori, Frerin, Glóin, find a suitable room for our guest, make sure it’s clean.”

There were a few seconds of shocked silence. The feather-duster, suit of armor, and handheld bellows edged out of the room as quietly as they could with Frerin clanking away, though Glóin sent Thorin a displeased huff and a glare. Gandalf spoke quietly, but it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, let alone a needle’s voice. “Then you did take him.”

The disappointment in his tone was almost tangible, but Thorin was too used to it to bristle. Much. “No, wizard, I did not. The daughter came in his stead, and came willingly.”

Bofur nearly fell; Thorin tipped his wing up to send him sliding back onto his back. “A girl?”

Balin sounded torn; half shocked, part horrified, part hopeful. Nevertheless, Thorin corrected him. “A woman. She’s young, but there’s no doubt she’s past her majority and old enough to make such decisions.” A familiar, slight pressure informed Thorin that Bofur had settled into his usual spot, and Thorin half-turned to go. “She also can’t see well enough to get around on her own. Dori, Bombur, see what food you can find.”

With that, he left, though he could hear them talking for several seconds before he made it out of earshot. “So, I’ll just bring her back to the common room, then?”

Thorin paused; he knew from experience that the smaller members of the Company found it difficult to hear him if he didn’t turn to face them, and he’d blindly walked into walls more times than he liked to admit before finally learning to just stop. “After you take her to the forges. She claims to be able to make some repairs, so she’ll need tools in hand before you introduce her to Balin and Dwalin.”

Bofur straightened excitedly. “You think she can fix them?!”

Thorin hesitated. “I think she may be capable of it, and at worst she’ll be able to take instruction from you or Frerin.”

Bofur’s infernal optimism didn’t so much as falter, the hope still making his flames even brighter than usual. But he did frown a moment later. “Before ‘I’ introduce her? Where will you be?”

“Hunting.” His mouth watered at the thought. “I only found a snack before all this, and she’ll need food, anyway.”

Bofur raised a metal brow at him. “You do realize Hobbits need more than just meat, don’t you?”

Incredulous, Thorin copied his expression. “How would you know?”

Wrapping his arms around the spine in front of him, Bofur grinned at him. “Some of us actually talk to people we don’t know. We went through the Shire on the way here, remember? There was that inn with the beer, you know: _‘you can search far and wide, you can drink the whole town dry—_ ”

Wincing, Thorin bucked just enough to stop the miner before he sang the entire thing. “I remember now.” Mostly, he remembered that Bofur hadn’t stopped singing it for weeks.

Bofur chuckled, but said nothing, only tightened his grip a fraction, and so Thorin faced forward and ran. He wasn’t an especially large dragon, though most of the living quarters were too small for him to fit into and the kitchens were impossible for him to access. But he was small enough that he could move about the mountain, at least. If he’d been Smaug’s size, he could never have done this. It wasn’t enough, wasn’t like being a Dwarf, so would never be enough, but it was better than nothing. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Thorin PoV! Sorry about the info-dump, but I couldn't see any way past it. But hey! Surprise Frerin! More details later. (^u^)  
> Tomorrow, Bell meets the first of the Company.  
> À bientôt!


	4. April 27, 2934, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But there’s something in him that I simply didn’t see…

Bell stared after the dragon for several seconds after he— after it disappeared into the darkness. From her father’s account, from Bard’s stories, from the old wives’ tales and bogeyman legends she’d been hearing for a full decade, she’d expected the dragon to be barely more than an animal, or if it was intelligent, to be so heartless as to leave no doubt of its lack of humanity. Instead, he’d seemed genuinely offended by her tools, and then dumbstruck by her reaction; she’d obviously been right to think there was no risk of antagonizing him, but really, would it have mattered?

And then, he’d— it, it had set her down gently rather than toss her aside. Granted, her legs had been jelly and she’d fallen, but that had nothing to do with him.

If she was never that far off the ground ever again, it would be too soon.

And then he’d told her, bluntly but not harshly, to stay where she was, when she’d half expected him— it to throw her in a dungeon or something for not doing as he said. It said.

It wouldn’t be half so hard to keep thinking of him— it as an ‘it’ if it wasn’t so…

She didn’t really know. Not monstrous. Not kind, but not cruel.

Staying in the patch of light, such as it was, she looked around. The far end of the room was impossible to make out, but she could see some of the area, at least. The gates behind her stretched higher than any building she’d ever seen, though she didn’t think they were taller than the trees in Mirkwood. The break seemed as though it had been ripped, not smashed, but then, she didn’t have any experience with stone. The area was largely empty, and clean other than a helping of dust and some dead leaves.

She had to wonder about that. The Men in Lake-town swore that nothing had grown around Erebor since Smaug came, but the autumn leaves from Mirkwood didn’t even reach Lake-town. There had to be trees closer to the mountain than that. And even going within a few yards of Mirkwood had made her nauseous, but she felt nothing now, nothing more than she felt in Lake-town. Actually, she felt a bit less than in Lake-town; she’d forgotten what it was like to not be surrounded by dead wood.

Homes in the Shire were built with wood, of course, but the Shire was also surrounded by green, growing things that must have offset the slight disquiet she felt in Lake-town. 

But despite the cracks in the stone and the pillars that stopped halfway up, and half a dozen other signs of disrepair, there was no debris in the room. No signs of life, but no signs of death, either. It was more than she’d hoped for. She’d half-thought she’d be cleaning up skeletons.

A rush of motion sent a pulse of alarm through her, and she lost her balance, falling back as a huge shape twisted over her and shot through the break in the gates. Something fell off its back as it went, clanking on the stone, and she realized the shape had been the dragon at the same moment that the thing moved.

Light glinted off the metal as she scrambled back, and the thing sat up and— “Hello there!”

She did not shriek, thank you very much. She was understandably startled and reacted accordingly, but she did not shriek.

After she was done shrieking (which didn’t take long, as she didn’t have breath for anything more that a short yell), she could only gape at the thing, wide-eyed, as she caught her breath. The thing moved its… arms? with exaggerated calmness, ‘hands’ moving up and down like she might to try and calm a hysterical patient. “Easy, lass. I take it his nibs didn’t tell you about us?”

The reasonable tone (not to mention the foreign accent) was unexpected enough to cut through the shock, and she managed a weak, stuttering, “No, um. N— no, no, he didn’t.”

The… whatever-he-was nodded genially. “Yeah, he’s not the most talkative fellow, I’ll grant you that.”

She opened her mouth; nothing came out, but what-was-he waited for her to speak anyway. “…Wh… I…” She cleared her throat self-consciously. “I don’t mean to… to be rude, but… what are you?”

She couldn’t see if he had an expression, or even a face, but he sounded confused. “You can’t— Oh, that’s right, he said you couldn’t see much! Just a mo’!”

He put one of his ‘hands’ to his… face? and hunched over slightly. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a tiny flame burst into being on his head, and she realized with a jolt that he was a candelabra, not entirely unlike the ones she’d seen in Rivendell when they’d passed through on the way to the Misty Mountains, but much stockier, and of course much shorter. And she’d been right, in a way; he did have a face. In fact, he looked like a miniature Dwarf, hair and all, except that he had candles rather than hands. He stood about knee-high, she thought, but apart from that, every tiny, metallic detail was the perfect representation of a bearded, mustachioed, floppy-hatted Dwarf.

As she watched, he grinned, then looked at his ‘hands’ and frowned again. Holding up one in what she thought was meant to be a ‘one second’ gesture, he put it to his mouth as he had before, and this time she could see his cheeks puff out for a few seconds before his free stub lit with a pop. It was ridiculous enough that she couldn’t help but laugh, and he grinned again. 

“There we are.” He put his stubs together to light the last wick, and moved toward her, metal feet giving tiny _clinks_ against the stone. “Bofur, at your service. I’d shake your hand, but…”

He held up his stubs with a shrug, still grinning; if his expression had fallen, she wouldn’t have able to find any humor in it, but his tone was light enough that she laughed again. He relaxed a bit at the sound, and she grinned back at him. “Bell Baggins, at yours and your family’s.” She gave a little half-bow, which he returned, chuckling.

“Good to know. I can’t rightly say all of us are eager to meet you, but…”

“Wait, ‘us’?” Frowning, she realized he’d said ‘us’ earlier, as well. “How many others are here?”

He tilted his head. “Minus me and his nibs, eleven. Like I was saying, there’s two of us who could use your help.”

Her brows shot up. “My help?”

His expression flickered. “You can fix things, can’t you?”

“Well…” As his words registered, she trailed off; he sounded almost plaintive. Slowly, she realized. “They’re broken, aren’t they?”

Nodding, he sighed. “We have all the tools and supplies needed, but those of us who can be delicate enough aren’t strong enough, those of us who are strong enough are too clumsy, and some of us… well.” 

He motioned to his stubs with another shrug, but this time his smile was sad, and her eyes burned. Any words she could think of seemed trite, and the silence went on for a few seconds before Bofur noticeably, and clearly deliberately, cheered up. “Well, time’s wasting. Catch your death of cold if you don’t get in by the fire.”

With that, he trotted toward the far end of the room; smiling, she caught up easily and walked beside him, careful to keep her skirts away from his flames. “You have a fire?”

“No.” She laughed; he grinned up at her, genuinely, she thought. “At least, not when his nibs collected me, but I’m sure one or another of the others will have one going by the time we get there. Though, I should warn you, a few aren’t as unremarkable as me.”

Grinning, she gave a mock-shudder, and the conversation passed easily as they walked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost all of this is based on the 1991 movie, but to be honest, I did steal Lumière from the new one. I still haven't seen the new one (and refuse to out of principle; if you're going to make a musical, cast people who can sing, for Pete's sake), but I have seen the CinemaSins video. (^u^) So yeah, Bofur looks like a tiny, metal version of himself besides the stubs replacing his hands and on top of his hat. (I couldn't take his hat from him, I just couldn't do it.) Also, whoops, I forgot to mention the lack of a certain One Ring, didn't I? In this 'verse, Isildur did destroy the Ring and Sauron cursed the Greenwood out of spite or something (I just realized today that in a proper No-One-Ring-AU, there'd be no reason for Hobbits to have left Anduin and found the Shire, but it's too late to change this story); maybe Thranduil insulted him during the war. *shrugs*  
> Sorry about the short chapter, but at least you only have to wait a day?  
> À bientôt!


	5. April 27, 2934, pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most days, we just lay around the mountain/ flabby, fat, and lazy/ you walked in and oopsie daisy!

Bofur liked Bell. She couldn’t hold a candle (pun intended) to his Karkûna, of course, but she was smart, funny, kind… If anyone could fall in love with the great, clonking idiot, he thought she might. ‘Course, if she was as intelligent as he thought she was, she ought to run the other way, but then, if she did break the curse, she’d be Queen Under the Mountain. Intelligence would seem to be a necessity. 

He led her to one of the royal workshops, with the good tools, and made sure to watch her reaction as he lit the ‘torch’. Brows raised, her eyes followed the flame as it chased around the spiral; the delicacy of the work meant that the room had to be brighter than strictly necessary for a Dwarf, so a long, shallow bed of treated hard-coal circled the room before ending in the center of it. But Bofur saw the instant she saw the tools in the room; her jaw dropped, expression like nothing so much as the Company’s when they saw the treasury.

Giving the fire a wide berth, she moved to one of the tables of tools and ran her fingers over them reverently. Bofur was surprised, but pleased; he’d never before met a member of another race who showed that sort of awe for anything Dwarves treasured. Smiling at the quirks of fate, he clambered onto the table and carefully walked along the edge, glad his feet were small enough that he could avoid stepping on anything. Once he was close enough to stop, he looked up at Bell, but his heart skipped a beat to see tears in her eyes.

“Lass, what’s wrong?!?”

Her eyes shot to him as though she’d forgotten he was there, and she wiped her cheeks, shaking her head. “Nothing, Bofur. Now, what tools will I need?”

Whatever was paining her, it certainly wasn’t ‘nothing’, but Bofur hadn’t spent fifty years in close proximity with the woman he intended to marry, and her sisters, not to know that there were times to nudge and times to leave a woman be. He didn’t like seeing Bell crying, didn’t like seeing anyone crying, but this was one of the latter group, he could tell. So he simply began pointing out what he would use if he could; carefully, he noted the instances when Bell would take one or two similar tools as well as what he directed her to take.

As she tucked the tools away in an over-large pocket in her jacket, he moved over to the dousing switch. “You’ll want to stand by the door before I snuff the lights, lass.”

She raised a brow at him, but finished with the tools and moved to stand in the doorway, watching him curiously. It took his full weight to drive down the lever, but he managed it, and the coal-beds lowered just enough for water to drown the flames. The water half boiled away, but the fire died away in a matter of seconds, and the beds rose again, excess water sloughing away as they did. He’d seen it a handful of times before, but he didn’t think he’d ever take the display for granted. Going by Bell’s awestruck expression, he thought he probably wasn’t alone in that.

“That… was…”

Her voice was barely more than a breath, and he grinned as he finished her sentence. “Incredible? Amazing? Fantastic?”

She grinned at him, huge and excited. “Brilliant! How does it work?”

Laughing, he hopped down to lead her out of the room. “It uses hard-coal, treated somehow so it doesn’t burn so hot as in the forges and then there’s a little reservoir under the beds that they lower into.” Her eyes lit up even more, somehow, and he held up a candle, laughing. “Sorry, lass, but that’s all I can tell you. You’ll have to ask one of the others.” She gave a little mock-pout, but her ears twitched a moment later, her expression quirking into surprise, and she turned to look behind her.

Curious, he sidled over to look past her skirts, a distant clanking coming in earshot as he did, and he grinned. This would be interesting.

Moving ahead of her, he nodded for her to follow him. “C’mon, lass! Let’s introduce you.”

With that, he started running; she was able to keep up with a fast walk, laughing, but he was looking forward to the inevitable scene too much to mind.

 

Bell glanced at Bofur curiously as he ran ahead, but kept following. After only a few moments, the clanking was nearly close enough to touch; the stone carried the sound well enough that she couldn’t be sure how far away whatever-it-was was, but she thought they were nearly to it. Bofur rounded the corner first, and she caught up just as he shouted something like ‘carkoona’ and opened his arms. A little auburn blur collided with him and they spun, laughing; Bell couldn’t help but laugh as well, but her smile fell away as she took in the scene.

A few feet ahead of her was a massive suit of armor, a modestly-sized bellows on the ground beside it, balancing upright on the handles, and the way the candlelight fell on it almost made her think she could see the suggestion of a face in the creases of the side. 

Then it blinked.

Her eyes shot wide and she couldn’t help but fall back a step. Immediately, the suit of armor raised its hands the same way Bofur had when she scr—startled, and she realized it had been what she’d heard clanking. “Calm, lass. I know Glóin’s handsome as anything, but he’s a taken man.”

Its voice (a different accent than Bofur’s) was slightly echoing, and despite the natural inflections, the way he spoke was the same as Bofur: no pauses for breath, no audible in- or exhales, and somehow she knew that there was no one inside the armor. Its words only registered a moment later. “Handsome?”

The bellows puffed itself up a bit (literally), and the auburn thing that had rushed to Bofur (which she now saw was an elaborate feather-duster, with a metal handle shaped like a Dwarf in the same sort of style as Bofur was, and with the feathers fanning out to form a full skirt), snapped in a distinctly feminine voice, “Oh, pack it in, Glóin, can’t you see she doesn’t care?”

Her accent was different than either of the men’s, and she turned to Bell with a smile; Bell kneeled down to see her better, and had to hide a smile when the bellows, Glóin, muttered something about his wife caring.

The duster was as detailed as Bofur, with hair gathered into three points and a beard and mustache Bell couldn’t be sure was meant to be there or not; unlike Bofur, she had hands, but her fingers were needle-thin and her arms were nearly as spindly. But her smile looked genuine and the laugh-lines on her face set Bell more at ease than she’d expected. “Nori, at your service.”

She gave a formal bow, holding onto Bofur for balance, who pulled her back up when she started to tip over with an ease that suggested it happened often; the suit of armor bowed as well, and caught the bellows when he toppled forward. (Belatedly, Bell realized that Glóin had been bowing as well.) “Frerin, at your service.”

“Glóin, at your service.”

Bell bowed back as well as she could while she was kneeling. “Bell Baggins, at yours and your families’.”

As she straightened, she took a better look at the two men. Glóin’s legs and sides seemed to be made of iron or something similar, and she could just see the edges of elaborate, raised embossing. She’d been right, before: his face was in the leather sides of the accordion, more suggested than really there, but she could just tell he was smiling. 

Frerin, on the other hand, had no face at all, but he had more of a body to communicate body language, so she thought he was as at ease as the others. He was obviously built for practical use, not decoration, but even so, the level of detail suggested a high rank, or at least deep pockets. Assuming Dwarves were like Men in that respect, anyway. As she straightened, Bofur moved forward, one arm around Nori’s shoulders, the other waving for Bell to follow him, and the moving light made it far easier for her to see that Frerin’s helmet was completely empty. She’d already figured that out, of course, but the reality was a bit more unnerving than the theory.

“This lot were getting a room ready for you— was it around here, love?” Bell tore her eyes away from Frerin’s lack of a face to follow the group, but she didn’t need to go to much effort. Nori didn’t seem able to move quite as quickly as Bofur, and if Glóin had been the same size as her, Bell didn’t think he’d be able to keep up, either; Glóin had to pivot back and forth to ‘walk’, swinging one leg forward, then the other. Bell couldn’t quite tell how Nori was moving; she seemed to be somehow supporting herself on her feathers, but Bell didn’t understand how.

She shook her head head slightly, dismissing the thought; it was a question for another day, and it wasn’t as though she’d run out of time to ask. Nori nodded in response to Bofur’s question. “Yeah, it’s just up a few blocks and around the corner.”

Her voice shook faintly, and Bell could see her shoulders trembling. Bofur stopped dead in his tracks and looked at her with a mix of awe and horror. “Nori, tell me you didn’t…”

He trailed off as she broke into quiet cackles, then helplessly joined her a moment later. Bell raised a brow bemusedly; whatever they were talking about obviously wasn’t serious, but she still had to ask, “Is there a problem?”

They just laughed harder, and quiet clanking made her realize that Frerin was stifling laughter as well, and Glóin was giving off little puffs. Bofur choked out, “Got to show you, lass! Double-time!”

With that, Bofur pulled Nori around to his back and set off at a run, her with her arms around his neck, trailing behind him like a flag and laughing even harder than before. Glóin slammed one leg down, propelling him up far enough for Frerin to snatch him out of the air and tuck him under an arm, offering his other to Bell. Smiling widely, she took it and they ran after the other two; she could tell he was holding back a bit to compensate for her shorter legs, but given that he fairly towered over her, it only seemed fair.

It took a few minutes to get to the room, longer than she’d thought from Nori’s directions, but when they rounded the final corner, Frerin excused himself (impressively politely), set down Glóin, and rushed to the end of the wide corridor, clanking loudly. Glóin flopped over, still puffing out laughter, and somehow managed to communicate waving her on when he didn’t have wrists. Bofur and Nori both called her as well, so, reluctantly, she left Glóin where he was and joined the others where they were bouncing in place beside a set of double doors at least twice as tall as she was.

Bofur and Frerin puffed themselves up (Nori did as well, but she was stifling snickers, so she couldn’t quite pull it off the way the other two did), though they were shaking, and Frerin  gave a mock-formal bow before opening the door with a slow solemnity. “If you’ll allow, my lady, may the Company of Erebor humbly present… your room.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I meant to get this up last night, but--  
> Bofur PoV, at least? Also, I had Alphonse Elric in my head while I was coming up with Frerin's design; can you tell?  
> I'll upload the next update a little early, too. Sorry again!  
> À bientôt!


	6. April 27, 2934, pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be… Our… Guest! Be our guest!…

Frerin wished he could grin. If he could have, he was sure his cheeks would’ve hurt from the sheer glee in the expression as he watched Bell’s eyes go wide. They really were remarkable. (And he couldn’t help but remember that Thorin had always had a partiality for light eyes.) But the wonder in her face, that was what he was really looking at.

She stepped into the room slowly, pivoting to take it all in as she walked, as gracefully as a dancer. (He never used to notice those things, but it was so hard for him to be careful now, he couldn’t help but spot it in others.)

The room was large, more than large enough for Thorin to stay in it, but he was a melodramatic moron, always had been, so he avoided it like the plague. It was Thrór’s set of rooms, of course.

Out loud, he told Bell, “These are the King’s chambers.”

Spell broken, her eyes snapped to him, visibly alarmed. “What, the dragon’s?!”

“Aw, what, his nibs didn’t introduce himself?” Frerin shot a glare at Bofur; it was obviously less effective than it used to be, but Bofur caught it anyway and shut his mouth.

Gingerly, Frerin moved to Bell’s side and guided her further into the room. “What Bofur means is that his name is Kobor,” (because what would someone as dramatic as Thorin rename himself but ‘beast’), “and he’s not the King.” (Not yet. Not as a dragon.) “He sleeps in the common room, never even comes near this section of the mountain.”

Some of the tension left Bell’s expression, but her back was still stiff under his hand. As far as he could tell, anyway; sensations were more guesswork than anything else, anymore. “Then who’s the King?”

Glad he didn’t have an expression to betray him, Frerin was careful to keep his grief out of his bearing and voice alike. “There isn’t one at the moment. This was the former king, King Thrór’s suite of rooms before Smaug came. It’s been empty since.”

Coming to the center of the suite, Frerin stopped, as did Bell. This room was a large living area, then there were doors leading off to the rest of the rooms, all of them intentionally left open, with torches lit inside, so she could at least get a sense of what they were. There was a bathroom; the master bedroom, of course; which was connected to a nearly identical room in case the King and Queen wanted separate beds but not separate suites; small washrooms off of both bedrooms; and a small nursery between the two bedrooms. That had never been used, of course, but when Erebor was first established, Thrór was still the sort of ruler who would plan for the possibility of his son inheriting while he was still young enough to have children.

Directly in front of them was a huge fireplace, but without more notice, they hadn’t had time to get enough wood to light it.

Nori and Glóin had taken care of the dust and cobwebs, Frerin had made sure everything was livable, and between the three of them, they’d done all right, he thought.

But Bell shook her head, still wide-eyed. “I can’t stay here.”

Bofur exclaimed; Nori demanded, “Why not?!”

For a second, Bell only shook her head. “Because— these are rooms for royalty! I’m nothing of the sort, I can’t stay here! It’s not proper!”

Soothingly, Frerin patted her arm. “But you’re the only person in the mountain who could stay here, Bell.” She still looked distressed, and he felt a phantom of a smirk as a new line of attack occurred to him. “Besides, when the King does get here, whenever that is, he’ll need to stay here, and what better way to keep it livable than if you live here? You’ll be able to see to the upkeep, air it out, make sure it’s ready for him.” She was wavering, he could see, and he added gently, “Besides which, we don’t sleep. At all. Some of us stay in the common room at night, some of us wander about, but nearly all of us are pretty noisy. Th— Kobor’s used to it, he could sleep through a hurricane, but I’m sure you’d do better someplace a bit quieter.”

Frowning faintly, she pivoted and looked around the room again. “It’s a bit stark.”

“Oh, you can change that,” Bofur said flippantly, “decorate as much as you want. You’re a guest, make yourself comfortable.”

“Bofur!” Rare anger made Frerin’s voice sharper than usual, but he couldn’t help it; it was unfortunate enough that Bell didn’t have a choice in staying, they didn’t need to remind her of it.

But Bell waved him off, smiling tightly. “No, he’s right. I was invited and I came.” Stunned, Frerin stayed silent while she looked around again, eyes calculating rather than wonder-filled. “I’ll stay here. For now. But I’ll be making changes.”

The last almost sounded like a warning, but Frerin just wanted to grin. That was exactly what he hoped she’d do; maybe if it didn’t look so familiar, Thorin would get over himself and be able to tolerate being inside it once the curse was broken. Nori grinned for him. “Good! This place is just depressing!”

Bell laughed lightly. Not for the first time, Frerin wondered what she’d sound like if she really let loose. “But enough about the rooms; Bofur said there were patients waiting for me.” They all sobered at the reminder, but Frerin tried not to let on as he offered her his arm.

 

The group was quiet as they left the chambers, but Bell, still thinking of the suite, barely noticed. From what she’d seen, there was a bed in the bedroom and a table in the main room, but barely any other furniture. The walls were completely bare, and if Frerin hadn’t told her they were the King’s rooms, she never would have guessed. From everything she’d always heard about Dwarves, she would’ve thought that a Dwarven King’s private rooms would be overflowing with mathoms, but instead it was barren and cold. 

Literally. She’d need a mountain of blankets if she couldn’t build a fire.

But they slowed after a few minutes of winding through corridors, and Bofur announced cheerily that they’d be stopping at the kitchen. “It’s right on the way, and I know my brother’s dying to meet you.”

Nori snorted, but there was something stiff in her narrow shoulders; Bofur spoke quietly to her. Bell might have been able to hear if she tried, but she politely focused on Frerin’s clanking, instead, and ignored the isolated words here and there too clear not to be heard.

She wasn’t sure what to expect from a Dwarven kitchen, and certainly not one that had probably been sitting idle for decades, unless the d… (what did Frerin call him, again?) …unless Kobor often ate baked goods. So when she walked into the room, she wasn’t shocked or disappointed. It was a small, serviceable kitchen, some parts still dripping from being cleaned, not impressive by Hobbit standards, but better than anything she’d seen in Lake-town.

And compared to Glóin, the large teapot and larger stove that grinned and waddled forward when they saw her were practically tame.

“Dori, at your service.” The teapot’s build wasn’t as dainty as those in the Shire, but her painted decorations were surprisingly elegant; like Glóin, her face was more suggested in the quasi-floral details than actually depicted, but the hostile look she shot Nori was clear enough. Bell had to wonder what the history there was, but wondered if they were sisters; her mother’s sisters had been ‘Mirabella’ and ‘Donnamira’, after all.

“Bombur, at your service.” Compared to his brother (and the similarity in their names was enough to convince Bell of her theory about Dori and Nori), Bombur was practically silent, and she could swear that if he had a little more expression, his smile would be shy. She couldn’t resist smiling a little more widely at him; her smile widened even more when he looked down and shuffled his feet. (If she wasn’t mistaken, the air felt a little warmer than it had a minute before, though he couldn’t visibly blush.)

Shaking her head at the bizarreness of thinking a stove was adorable, she grinned and dropped into a curtsy. “Bell Baggins, at yours, though I think I’m already at your families’.”

Bofur and Nori snickered, and Frerin nodded, voice warm. “Well spotted, lass. How’s dinner coming?”

Dori gave a huff through her spout, and Bell thought her arms would’ve been crossed if she had any. “As well as can be expected when all we have is meat. Not a spice in the mountain.”

Those with faces looked a bit guilty, conspicuously not looking at Bell, and she made her voice and smile intentionally warm. “Oh, don’t worry about me; it’s hardly the first time I’ve eaten rough.”

Most of them relaxed, but for a split second, Nori and Frerin looked at her sharply. An instant later, the moment passed and they relaxed as well, but she noted it anyway.

“So,” she made sure to speak lightly, “you two are sisters? And you’re brothers?”

Nori and Dori both gave terse nods to her first question, but Bofur bobbed his head, grinning, in response to the latter. “Well, I say ‘brothers’. Really, we’re cousins, but he’s married to my sister, Bafur, so—”

“—Bofur, stop it! Bell doesn’t know how to tell when you’re pulling things out of thin air yet!” Bell watched Frerin for a beat longer than she might have if his voice hadn’t been oddly… 

panicked.

He was lying. Lying that Bofur was lying.

Quickly, Bell gave a rueful smile and shook her head at Bofur. “I’m going to have to watch my step around you, won’t I?” She made sure to keep her tone teasing, though; if she’d believed Frerin, Bofur would’ve reminded her of a few Took cousins.

Bofur grinned back, but his smile was just a tad stiff. “Keeps you on your toes, though.”

At that, she really did grin. “Oh, my Mum would’ve loved you.” Everyone stiffened again, but at least this time she knew why. Before any of them could react further, though, she waved to Bombur and Dori and tugged Frerin around to the door. “Lovely to meet you both, but I have patients!”

Bofur and Nori caught up so quickly that Bell could feel Nori’s feathers tickling her heels as she walked over the threshold, but Glóin broke the silence almost as soon as they left the room. “You keep using that word, lass. Just better than ‘projects’?”

Her grip on Frerin’s arm tightened. “No, I’m a healer. Was. It’s habit, I suppose.”

Glóin started to say something further, but she heard a short scrape as Frerin moved his other arm, and all that left the bellows was a puff of air. None of them said anything further until they reached the common room.

The room was well lit; she saw the glow of it before they even came around the corner, and warmth spilled out, as well, once they were closer. The heat made her realize just how cold she was, and she eyed the roaring fire with more than a little appreciation once they actually entered the room. The occupants distracted her quickly, though.

A small quill, tip stained black from use, bobbed shallowly. (She didn’t mind, especially once she heard how young she sounded.) “Ori, at your service.” (Obviously Dori and Nori’s sister, probably the youngest, based on their mannerisms.)

Bofur moved to the side of an odd sort of rectangle, with one front-top corner chipped off. “This is my other brother, Bifur, but he’s not the talkative sort.” Bifur unfolded some sort of tool from his side and waved at her, saying something she could hear clearly enough to know it wasn’t any language she’d heard before. (But Bofur’s smile was tight again, and she could guess why, so she just smiled at Bifur and pretended not to have heard him.) After a moment, though, she realized she recognized it as a woodcarving tool, of the sort her father had used in the Shire, and a pang of nostalgia made her smile a bit harder to hold.

Glóin moved to the next object, or rather objects: a mortar and pestle. “And here’s my brother, Óin. He’s plenty talkative, but he can’t hear so well. ISN’T THAT RIGHT?”

Bell raised her brows at the sudden shout, but had to bite back a laugh when the mortar shouted back, pestle rattling around the bowl, “STOP BEING SO BLOODY QUIET, WE HAVE A GUEST! ÓIN, AT YOUR SERVICE!”

Jangling, tuneless chimes cut her off before she could calm enough to respond, and her eyes jumped to a small, shaking box. Beside it was a mantle-clock not unlike the one she’d grown up with in Bag-End, except, of course, that its ‘face’ was a bit more literal than most. It also had arms, of a sort; someone had taken the hands off the ‘face’ and attached them to its sides, but one of them was hanging limp, and they were a bit asymmetrical, anyway. 

The clock hit the box with its good arm, chiding it none-too-quietly, “Now you’re being rude. Stop laughing!” Turning to her, the clock smiled and bowed stiffly. “Balin, at your service, and my speechless brother is Dwalin.”

Manners keeping her curtsy graceful, she smiled at each of them. “Bell Baggins, already at yours and your families’.” As she straightened, though, her mind was racing; Bofur had said there were eleven others, not counting him, but she’d only met ten.

As if on cue, a glimmer of light drew her eyes to a sliver of metal as it hopped to stand upright from where it’d been lying beside Balin. “Baggins? Surely you can’t be related to Bungo?”

Her smile fell away. “How do you know my father’s name?”

The needle chuckled, in a surprisingly-deep voice for someone so tiny. “I knew him many years ago, and your mother. I’m glad to see Belladonna gave you her eyes; I always thought they’d look stunning with Bungo’s hair.” He chuckled again, but she didn’t respond. She could barely even breathe. “But to answer your question, my dear, my name is Gandalf. Gandalf th—”

“The Grey One.” He faltered to a stop, but she just stared at him, jaw clenched. It felt as though she was frozen, every bit of her filled with ice, and she couldn’t even shiver.

“Yes. I take it your parents told you of me?”

Her eyes prickled as she stared at him, and she closed them before any tears could form, let alone fall. For several moments, she only focused on breathing slowly, calming her heart, pushing away the memories of her parents assuring her, again and again, that the Grey One would come. That he’d save them. That everything would be alright, because Gandalf the Grey would save the Shire.

She hadn’t really needed the confirmation that they hadn’t always been animate objects, but it helped her eliminate a few rumors, at least. She’d already known that— that Kobor wasn’t Smaug, but unless he was the one to change them, which she would think would mean that he’d be well able to repair them, there was every possibility that he was in the same boat as them. That they were all cursed. It was still only a theory, of course, but she’d have time to find out for sure. She’d have the rest of her life, probably.

Once she could do so without falling apart, she opened her eyes and deliberately smiled at Balin. “So, I’m guessing that the two of you are my patients?”

Ignoring Gandalf’s attempts to get her attention, and the uncertain way Balin’s eyes flicked between her and the needle, she knelt in front of the brothers. Slowly, but without any audible sign of unease, Balin answered. “If you can repair clockwork, lass, then I suppose we are.”

Humming, she nodded thoughtfully. Up close, she could see that some of the gears were missing from his face, probably recycled to make it possible for him to use his arms, which was probably the problem. Those gears weren’t meant to be there, to fit there. It would be harder to fix than she’d handled alone before, but clockwork was logical enough that she didn’t think it would be too difficult to handle. But Dwalin… She looked toward him, biting her lip. “I’ve fixed clocks before, but I haven’t even seen a music box in decades. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to begin.”

Bofur, surprisingly, was the one to respond, Bifur hopping beside him toward her. “We’ll help with that, lass. Bif and I’ll walk you through it, and it’s not so different from a clock, anyway.”

Tuneless jangling again came from Dwalin, but this time it almost sounded angry. Based on the way Bofur and Nori rolled their eyes, and Frerin moved his arm as though he’d consciously kept from face-palming, she guessed he’d been offended by the idea of similarities between him and his brother. Stifling a laugh, she cleared her throat to quiet the men. “Well, I have tools with me. Shall we get started?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again for the late update this morning--I had an idea for a Hobbit Cinderella and it completely took over my brain last night--but hopefully this makes up for it a little. (Until four updates down the line, when the people who start reading later just think this is a weird message. :P)  
> BTW, Bofur's nickname for Nori is 'Karkûna', which means 'raven-lady', since they're smart, kleptomaniacs, and in the Tolkien 'verse, just about the most omniscient creatures in Arda.   
> I just realized that I have a bunch of stories where Bell(a) is angry with Gandalf at the beginning for stuff that wasn't really his fault. Now I'm not sure if I have a subconscious problem with Gandalf or if I'm subconsciously mad at the people who think he's useless. It's not all my stories, at least.  
> Anyway, next update is Sunday morning/afternoon and then every Sunday.  
> À bientôt!


	7. April 27, 2934, pt. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined…

Bell glared at the ceiling. She’d repaired Balin easily (she’d been right: the redesigned mechanisms had stalled completely on his left side, and she’d had to finagle a way to remove the damaged gears without sacrificing any function), but she’d been yawning by the time she finished, and the group as a whole (she included) had decided it was best that she got some sleep before she tried to fix Dwalin. Balin obviously couldn’t tell time anymore, but, as Bofur had informed her on the way back to her room, Bifur had an unerring knack for time-keeping; he’d reminded them after her first yawn that it was the early hours of the morning.

Helping raise three children, one of whom was a toddler, had taught Bell to estimate how long she’d managed to sleep. So when she woke after only a scant few hours, she wasn’t exactly pleased.

She’d been trying to get back to sleep for what felt like hours, but she couldn’t. It was almost as though there was a fly in the room, buzzing away, even though the bedroom was almost eerily silent.

Lake-town was never silent. There was always the sound of the water, or the wind, or fishers or sellers preparing for the day’s work. And in the Shire, there’d been crickets or cicadas at night, and birdsong throughout the day.

She wasn’t sure she liked the silence. She wasn’t sure she disliked it, either. But it was unsettling, either way.

Giving up, she pulled the blankets as straight as she could in the dim light of a single lantern, then smoothed down her clothes and headed for the common room.

Ori jumped when she entered, fluttering slowly down. “Miss Baggins! I thought you’d sleep longer; it’s only midday!”

She chuckled humorlessly, but smiled genuinely at her. “So did I, but there’s nothing to be done about it.” Gritting her teeth against a yawn, she glanced around the room; Bifur, Dwalin, and Óin were there, but no one else. The already-large room seemed cavernous without the full group there, but it was warm, at least. “Where is everyone?”

Ori moved over to her, and Bell took a moment to watch her movement curiously; she used an odd combination of hopping and flipping through the air, with the occasional short glide. She did it expertly, though, and was able to speak as she did. “Well, no one thought you’d be up for hours, so Dori and Bombur are still cooking, Gandalf and Glóin are helping them, Bofur and Frerin are getting wood for your room, and Nori and Balin are trying to find some things for your room, although they were going to wait until you woke up to actually make any decisions.”

Bell hummed, fingering the tool-case in her pocket. “Do you think Bofur’ll be back soon?”

Ori began to say something, but Bifur interrupted her, rapidly speaking in an unmistakably foreign language. Bell listened carefully, eyes wide; Westron was lyrical enough, though the Elvish languages truly did sound like music, and Rohirric was fairly melodic, but this was different, almost like Hobbitish. She’d always thought Hobbitish was a little like the whispers of a forest, but this language was more like the rockslides she’d heard as they traveled through the Misty Mountains, consonants tripping over each other like pebbles down a slope, with the occasional harsher crash of a metaphorical boulder.

Dwalin interrupted Bifur after a few sentences, harshly; Bifur, at least, seemed to have an idea what the music box was saying, and the two of them argued loudly. Ori was watching them, and Bell knelt beside her, leaning down close enough to be heard under the cacophony. “What did he say?”

Ori jumped, and seemed to use the few moments as she floated back down to gather her thoughts. “Um, he… uh…” Once she landed, she turned toward the men for a few moments, then hopped a bit closer to Bel. “He said that you could fix Dwalin now, if I translate for him. He— It’s— Um… he has a kind of… made-up language, and all of us have sort of learned to understand him over the years.”

Her voice was high and trembling as she ‘explained’ about the language, but Bell didn’t pry. She’d noticed the day before that it was clearly meant to be a secret, so she’d spare Ori the heart attack and pretend to buy the excuse. “Are you sure you’ll understand him well enough? There might be some specialized directions.”

Ori rocked back and forth rapidly, nodding, Bell guessed. “I’m sure! Just… um… one moment.”

Obediently, Bell sat back on her heels as Ori hopped over to the men, and she pretended not to listen in as the quill argued with Dwalin in a fierce whisper (still in that language) for nearly a minute. If she had to guess (and she seemed to be doing an awful lot of that), Bell would say that Ori was telling him the lie she’d come up with.

Finally, Dwalin subsided with a huff and turned to Bell with a ‘let’s get this over with’ sort of jangle.

 

“Just a bit lower.”

Bell nodded in Bifur’s general direction as she followed the instructions Ori relayed, and was quickly rewarded with a small _snap_ as the final piece clicked into place. Gently, she closed Dwalin’s lid and drew her hands back, giving him a little space. Quietly, he cleared his throat, then croaked, “Took long enough.”

The three others cheered, but Bell just raised a brow incredulously. That was the thanks she got? Óin nodded to her, though. “NEAT JOB, LASSIE. GOOD, STEADY HANDS!”

She had to smile at the compliment, and nodded back to him, but Dwalin knocked him lightly. “BETTER THAN YOU COULD HAVE EVER DONE!” Óin huffed, but Dwalin just turned to Bell. “Like I said, took ‘em long enough to find a half-decent worker. For a Hobbit…” He trailed off, then coughed lightly. “You did well enough, I suppose.”

Again, she raised a brow at him, but she was starting to get the feeling that he wasn’t the type to gush over anything or anyone; dismissing the slight dent to her pride easily, she replaced her tools in their case. A metallic clinking came from the doorway, and she turned just in time to see Balin come around the corner at a near-run and freeze. “…Dwalin?”

Dwalin scoffed beside her, and Bell might have turned to look at him if a glint of light hadn’t reminded her of Gandalf’s presence in the mountain. “Oh, would you bloody come off it, ya great bleedin’ pillock! It’s not like you haven’t seen me every bleeding day—”

Balin just started laughing, and Bell tore her eyes away from the needle to find Nori watching her thoughtfully. Unable to hold her too-knowing eyes, Bell picked at her skirt, eyes low enough that she couldn’t see Gandalf. When Balin’s laughter eased away, Nori smoothly spoke up. “Ori, why don’t you and I show Bell around the mountain. Haven’t had time for a proper tour yet, have we?”

The exclusion of Gandalf wasn’t lost on Bell, and she suspected not on the wizard himself, either. Bell stood without waiting for Ori’s response, but it turned out that she didn’t need to, anyway; the quill glided past her before she could even take a single step, and the three women left the room without a second glance. As they walked down the corridor, tension gradually drained away from Bell that she hadn’t even been aware of gathering; the other two had been silent, but after a minute or so, Ori began commenting on the locations of such and such room relative to where they were. Nori added comments of her own on the architecture, little tongue-in-cheek tips on places to hide or climb or sneak up on unsuspecting bystanders; there was a tone to her words that made Bell think she was speaking from experience, though it was all said casually enough.

Something about Ori’s reactions, though… She didn’t have a face like some of the others did, so Bell couldn’t read her expression, but she made little noises, half-scoffs and -chuckles and -groans, sometimes disapproving, sometimes frustrated, but mostly as though she were trying not to find it as funny as she did.

Glóin joined the group a few minutes later, Frerin and Bofur a few after that, and the cheer of the running commentary lifted Bell’s mood tremendously. All in all, everything went smoothly for a bit over an hour.

“All right, and this here’s the treasury. Best not go in alone, lass; it’s practically a mountain on its own, and it’d be easy to get lost.” Snorting quietly at Bofur’s warning, Bell came within a hair’s-breadth of telling him how little interest she had in seeing the famed ‘Treasures of Erebor’, but her unspoken words died on her tongue as the door opened and Kobor stepped out. 

Somehow, she’d forgotten how huge he was. He glowered darkly at them; she’d already stopped moving, but now the others did as well. “What is this?”

Frerin spoke surprisingly casually, for addressing a seething dragon. “Oh, we were just showing Bell around, since she’ll be with us for a whi—”

“The treasury is off-limits.” His voice filled the spacious corridor, though he hadn’t raised it overmuch.

Bofur and Nori exchanged glances; Glóin, Frerin, and Ori shifted their weight, though Ori may have just been swaying. Nori spoke cautiously, “…Well, it is part of the mountain—”

“Then show her how to go around it.”

The callous, detached tone was reminiscent of Alfrid, the Master, a few of her Baggins cousins, and Bell’s temper flared. “‘She’ has a name, you kn—”

Snidely, he cut her off, and the spark of anger in her chest flared further; if he wanted a fight, she’d give him one. “And that matters to me bec—”

“It’s rude to interrupt—”

“I’ll do what I like—”

“Then I’ll take that as permis—“

He snarled. “You do not have per—”

When had she moved to stand so close to him? “—rmission to speak? Or perhaps to have a mind—”

“—mind of your own, no, you’ll do as I say—”

“—and be a good little prisoner, of course—”

“You’re not a prisoner, lass—”

As one, she and Kobor both roared at Bofur. “SHUT UP!”

She spun to face the dragon again so quickly that it gave her a crick in her neck. “You might control my behavior, but you do and will not control my mind—”

“—oubt if anyone coul—“

“—ake that as a complim—”

“—ut you will not enter the treasur—”

“—s if I’d want to—”

“—f course you wan—”

“—want what? A pile of mathoms?”

In a flurry of sound and motion, Bofur and Nori grabbed her hands and swung, chattering about nothing loudly enough to nearly drown out the sound of the other three doing almost the exact same thing to Kobor. Nori wasn’t heavy, but Bofur was, enough that she had to move as he wanted her to or overbalance completely. Her pulse pounded in her ears, loud enough to make their words incomprehensible for a few minutes.

She hadn’t yelled like that since… she wasn’t sure she’d ever shouted like that. She’d shouted at Kobor the day before, when he’d criticized the only tools she could afford, but that had been nothing compared to just now. She didn’t get angry. There’d been nothing to make her angry (annoyed, cross, grumpy, but never angry) before the Winter. After the Winter, she’d been numb most of the time, and even when things had happened that might have angered her, any reaction would have taken too much energy. On the journey, there’d been no anger. Joy, fear, all-consuming grief, but no anger.

She’d had more than enough reason to be angry since they’d settled in Lake-town. Between her mother’s death, the Elves’ heartlessness, she and her father being stuck in a Mannish city on a bloody lake, and most of all, the Master and Alfrid’s constant, inescapable attention, there had been days when she wanted nothing more than to explode.

But she couldn’t worry her father, and she had to set a good example for the children, and she didn’t want Bard to think she was being ungrateful. So she’d held her temper tightly in check. She’d held her tongue. She’d kept her peace. She hadn’t kicked Alfrid or the Master in the carrot and onions. She’d taught the Bardlings, as best she could, to act with patience and maturity.

And then Kobor had spoken to her like the Master did. Like Alfrid did. Like Longo and Camellia and Bingo and so many others did. And she’d exploded.

She’d stood inches away from a dragon too big to even fit in Bag-End, almost too big to fit in the market in Lake-town, and she’d roared.

She was absolutely insane, and by all rights she should’ve collapsed into a terrified puddle as soon as her anger faded, but instead…

She felt… light. She’d almost been able to pretend she was shouting at Alfrid and the others while she’d yelled at Kobor, and despite the fact that she knew full well they were nowhere in earshot, her heart didn’t seem to care. All her anger was gone, and rather than fear taking its place, she felt satisfied. She’d been carrying it so long, it was a relief to let it slip away.

Bofur and Nori were pointing out bits of the architecture, Nori being a bit more open with her not-so-respectable leanings, and Bell listened, relaxing somewhat.

 

Ori held back a relieved sigh as they entered the common room to see that the other three weren’t there. It had taken the combined efforts of her, Glóin, and Frerin to persuade Thorin to move away from the treasury, and they’d only managed it because Bell had been going in the opposite direction.

Of course, she hadn’t quite played fair. She’d pulled out every dirty verbal trick she’d ever developed from breaking up fights between her sisters, and maneuvered to rest on his claw, where she knew he’d make a connection between ‘innocent little girl’ and ‘tool of destruction’ and come to the conclusion that he needed to ‘protect’ her by backing down.

He really was easy to manipulate as far as that went. He had a temper, but it hadn’t even taken the entire journey to Erebor to see that he always put those he saw as his responsibility first. She was a member of his Company, so that did mean she was under his protection, but there was also the fact that she was the youngest of the Company, and a Dwarrowdam. That made her doubly precious, which made her doubly important to protect, which made her the perfect candidate to distract him when he was angry.

He couldn’t lose his temper around her, after all; if she burned up, there’d be nothing left.

He never had, of course. The last time he’d taken his temper out on the Company had been nearly four decades previous, and Nori had been the only one caught in his sights; she had feathers, but she was largely metal, so she’d been fine, and had recovered completely.

He’d been ten times as careful around all of them ever since, but especially around Ori and her sisters.

And she would take full advantage of that fact.

Dwalin’s voice broke her out of her thoughts. “…nd why does she keep being so strange around Gandalf?”

Bofur ventured, “Because he’s a talking needle?”

Frerin shook his head. “No, she’s adapted well enough to the rest of us; if that was why she was being strange, she’d be strange around Ori and Óin, as well.”

Balin nodded. “And you heard her when Gandalf introduced himself: she recognized his name. No, whatever it is, it’s personal.”

“What is it, then?” Thorin stared hard at Tharkûn as he spoke, leaving Ori in no doubt who he was addressing.

But the wizard swayed slowly in the closest motion he could get to shaking his head. “I have no idea.”

Bofur, Bifur, Nori, and Frerin groaned loudly. “You must!”

Gandalf’s ‘eye’ turned to Glóin. “Her parents were among my dearest friends in the Shire. They obviously told her at least something of me; I would’ve expected them to speak kindly of me. But Balin is right. Whatever Bell has against me, it’s personal to her, and severe enough for her to treat me so coldly; Hobbits do not, as a general rule, hold grudges unless they have been dearly wronged.”

The group was silent for a moment. Remembering what she’d learned of Hobbits when they’d traveled through the Shire, she ventured, “She probably hadn’t even been born when we came here. How could you have wronged her?”

Gandalf swayed again, she thought sorrowfully. “I don’t know, my dear.”

The room was silent again for several minutes. Thorin broke it by pushing to his feet and stalking out the door. “I’m going hunting. Keep her out of the treasury!”

Ori kept from rolling her eyes with difficulty. If she’d actually had eyes, it would’ve been impossible to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy it when Ori's a total con artist, can you tell?  
> Things really start moving next chapter, although you can probably guess what's going to happen from this and the movie. Still... I think I'll surprise you, at least a little. (^u^)  
> À bientôt!


	8. April 28, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a nightmare, but it’s one exciting ride…

Bell glared at the ceiling. There was something, a humming or a sound or something, she couldn’t really hear, or feel or whatever, it was too quiet, too faint, just at the edge of her perception, but it was keeping her awake. Again.

She tossed and turned for another few minutes, but now that she was mad, it was completely impossible that she’d be able to sleep. Finally giving up, she threw off the covers and padded silently to the main door. The Company had been giving her privacy thus far, but they didn’t sleep, so there was no guarantee they wouldn’t be wandering around. But she didn’t hear a thing, and slowly opened the door. There was still no sound, and she crept out, careful to close the door silently behind her. At the fork at the end of the corridor, the humming seemed stronger one direction than the other, and she padded toward it, keeping her eyes and ears open for any of the Company.

She followed the humming for several minutes, until it was strong enough that she could almost feel it buzzing under her feet, almost hear it ringing in her ears; she hadn’t seen a single member of the Company, but she’d heard one or two once or twice in the distance. She wasn’t sure whether it was that or the humming that was making her heart race, but regardless, she felt as though she were flying again; heart in her throat, stomach somewhere around her toes, nerves on fire to the point that she felt as though she’d spontaneously combust if she stayed still for more than a few seconds.

All the while, the humming seemed to pull her more insistently the closer she drew, and by the time her feet led her to a closed door, she could barely even think over her pulse roaring in her ears. But hiding, for a Hobbit, wasn’t a matter of thought. She eased the door open with the same care as her own door a few minutes prior, and the masses of gold inside barely even registered. 

As she picked her way automatically over the coins, though, her mind caught up. 

She was in the treasury. Hills of the Shire, she was in the treasury, the one. bloody. place she’d been forbidden to go. Sweet Yavanna, she was going to die. This was it, this would be the thing that tipped Kobor over the edge into killing her, she was just surprised that he hadn’t already—

No, he’d left earlier, gone hunting, that was right. That was right, that was what Frerin had said, Kobor was gone. So he wasn’t in the mountain, couldn’t catch her—

But he’d be able to smell her on the gold, wouldn’t he, he’d smell her and he’d know she’d defied him, and then he’d kill her.

She was dead. There wasn’t even a point in running; he’d just find her and kill her then, and then probably burn Lake-town since she left the mountain.

She was dead. So there wasn’t any point in turning back now.

As if she could turn back, anyway. The whatever-it-was was even stronger now, still not strong enough for her to tell whether it was a sound or a sense or something else altogether, but strong enough that there was no doubt in her mind which way to go. Her arms and legs were still carrying her without any conscious effort on her part, which left her free to drink in the sight as she crested a pile.

There was a stone. Some kind of white stone, unlike any she’d ever seen, ever heard of, ever dreamt of. It didn’t just sparkle in the light, it gave off light of its own, dancing, multicolored light. The only thing Bell could think to compare it to was seeing a rainbow from underwater. She certainly felt as though she were drowning as she moved toward it. It was resting in the middle of a little valley, clearly in a place of honor, and she fell to her knees beside it, barely aware of how the metal bit into the skin not covered by her skirt as she reached toward it.

A massive paw slammed over it, cutting off the humming. She watched a drop of blood roll down her hand, trailing away from the shallow cut one claw had opened, and fall onto the gold with a barely-audible _plink_. The sound, quiet as it was, brought her back to herself as much as the abrupt end of whatever spell had enthralled her, and terror cracked open the numbness, as gradual as blight spreading, and grew as her eyes traveled slowly up, tracing the scales and muscles of the leg before her, up past the glowing chest and neck, lingering on the wide, bloody mouth, until she met icy, wide, slit-pupiled eyes.

Once she met his eyes, she couldn’t look away, couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t stop shaking. Short, little, gasping breaths were the only sound she could make, half of them catching in her throat and threatening to become sobs, the other half leaving her in shallow huffs as though they wanted to be laughs.

Numb to everything but the terror coursing through her veins, she forced her legs to move, forced herself to push herself back, away from Kobor, away from the fire and fury she knew was coming. She could barely manage to move even an inch at a time, and he followed her just as slowly, coins spilling out in waves wherever he stepped.

“What do you think you are doing?” His already half-unfurled wings flexed with each emphasized word, and every time, the abrupt, short motion made Bell’s heart race a bit more.

She could only shake her head desperately, throat clear but mind blank.

(She attributed it to terror, but didn’t notice that she could remember most of the day with absolute clarity. It was only the last few hours that were fuzzy.)

A low, rattling growl rumbling through the gold beneath her, he leaned down as he continued to follow her; her arms hit nothing but air as she crested the piles, and the near-free-fall as she slid down only made her breath leave her entirely.

(Both of them entirely focused on each other, neither saw the Arkenstone slide forward as his tail bumped it, just far enough to brush against the small spatter of blood. Neither saw the Arkenstone’s light brighten just a tad. And neither noticed that the light’s dancing changed its rhythm, tempo increasing to match a rapid, terrified pulse.)

Snarling, he still stalked after her, waves of coins chasing her with every step he took. “You would trespass here, in my home, doing exactly what was forbidden.” The last word was a roar, and she jerked back at the sound, cresting another pile, and this time she slid until she hit freezing stone. 

The cold jolted her into herself again, and she scrambled to her feet, still backing away from him. “I— I don’t— I didn’t—”

A sob broke through the last word, though she couldn’t rightly say what she was trying to tell him. A low snarl reverberating through the stone beneath her even as he spoke, he stopped at the edge of the gold. “Get out.”

The words didn’t make sense, and she stopped, too. “I… I don’t…”

“Get OUT!” The roar carried a wave of fire, aimed mostly to the side of her, but close enough that her left shoulder burned, and she ran.

She ran until she couldn’t any longer, until the pain was all she could focus on. Her legs gave out, and she slumped against the wall underneath a lantern, her good shoulder pressing against the stone. For long seconds, she just tried to breathe, head and shoulder pounding along with her heart. Slowly, dimly, she remembered that she’d have to see her shoulder to know if it needed to be treated.

Whimpering as the motion made pain flare through her, she turned her head just far enough to see raw, blistering skin under still-smoldering holes in her jacket. The sight was enough to twist her stomach into knots, which only hurt more, and she heard a strangled moan; it took her a moment to realize it came from her.

 _‘Jacket… have to get the jacket off_ …’

Her mind felt full of fog, pain the only clear thing in her world, but she managed to fumble her good hand into the opposite pocket and fish out her little box of tools. Clumsily, she opened it, half the tools spilling over her skirts, but was able to grab the little knife. Hands shaking, she did her best to cut around the burned fabric, but after nicking herself half a dozen times, she simply cut off the buttons on the jacket and squirmed her good arm out of its sleeve before cutting the rest of the burned area off. The sleeve had already been largely unconnected, and fell off easily. The rest was another problem.

It took her long, slogging, quietly-sobbing minutes to work off the jacket and cut her shirt from collar to underarm; that done, she peeled it off and let it hang down her back. That done, she could see that the burn wasn’t as severe as she’d thought, though it felt severe enough. But the ordeal had taken more out of her than she’d expected, and for several minutes she simply leaned against the wall and breathed. In fact, she nearly fell asleep. In the end, what brought her back to herself was a dozing half-dream of standing in Bard’s house just after she and her father arrived, Rúna sitting across the counter from her, mock-frowning though the smile she’d pass on to Sigrid was playing at her lips and crinkling her eyes.

_“None of that, healer-girl. Your patients won’t have time for you to twiddle your thumbs.”_

Gritting her teeth, Bell forced her eyes open. Even (mostly) awake, she could still almost hear Rúna’s voice.

 _“You keep saying that Hobbits can’t help but help, so prove it. See a wound, you need to know what to do and how to do it, and we both know I won’t always be here to instruct you, and don’t you dare argue that, Bell! Now, burns…_ ”

That day rushed back, cutting through the fog, but the fog overswept it again as soon as Bell moved.

 _“What did I say? Now, first things first…_ ”

“M—make a lis’.” The answer left Bell sluggishly, but she forced herself to focus. “Wa’er, band’ges… med’cine…”

 _“Now here in Lake-town, we treat burns with…?_ ”

Bell smiled at the memory. “S—snails.” The thought was still bizarre, but she knew it worked. But where would she find snails? Water and bandages would be easy enough, but live snails? Her mind worked lethargically, but she remembered after a moment, “Leaves… mean trees.” Which meant that there had to be a grove, at the very least, somewhere close enough to the mountain for the leaves to blow through the gates.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself to her feet, snatching the shreds of her jacket and the knife automatically as she did; ten years of pinching pennies had taught her to salvage whatever possible, and she could use the fabric for bandages, if nothing else. She left the rest of the tools where they were, though, since she wouldn’t need them.

Her head was spinning, but her feet knew the way well enough, and she steadied herself on the walls whenever she could. 

 _“Now, pain is relative, Bell, I think all women know that, but everyone has their limit. When a patient reaches his or hers, it doesn’t matter if you’ve seen worse, what matters is that they haven’t. Be patient with them, but Men, Elves, Dwarves, or Hobbits, we’re tougher than we think we are. I’ve treated men who crawled on broken legs because they had no other choice, and every day, you’ll see patients with skinned arms who can’t bring themselves to hold a fork. Be patient. But if you need them to do more than they want to in order to heal them properly, don’t be coddling. Do what needs doing and ignore the cussing. Either they’ll forgive you or they won’t, but as long as they’re alive to do it, that’s all that matters._ ”

Bell could remember that day as though it was a week prior, rather than a full decade before, and she repeated Rúna’s words to herself again and again as she forced herself to keep moving. The burn, objectively, truly wasn’t that bad. She didn’t think the muscles underneath were damaged, and she certainly couldn’t see bone. 

But the worst she’d ever had were bruises. This was in another category entirely.

She wanted nothing more than to collapse where she was and succumb to the darkness at the edge of her vision, but if she did that, who knew when the Company would find her, or if they’d know how to treat her.

No. She was a healer, by trade and by right, and she could do this. She could do this.

She could do this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *evil grin* Told you things would pick up this chapter. Anyone see that coming?   
> Thorin PoV next chapter. (^u^)  
> À bientôt!


	9. April 28, 2934, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, there she goes; that girl is so peculiar/ I wonder if she’s feeling well…

Thorin straightened to look over his hoard, then nudged a few coins with one claw. A satisfied rumble left him to see his treasure once again in its proper place, though his mood fell as the bloodstains on a few of the coins once again caught his eye. He hadn’t meant to hurt Bell. He’d barely returned to Erebor when he sensed something disturbing his gold, and he’d rushed there only to find his Hobbit—the Halfling, he hastily corrected himself—moving to steal the Arkenstone. He’d only meant to stop her from touching it. He hadn’t even realized that he’d cut her until he saw the bloodstains.

Treasure sorted away, he glided down to the exit she’d used; he didn’t think he’d hurt her too badly, but he couldn’t be sure. And depending on how panicked she’d been, she may or may not have gone to the Company, and thus may or may not have gotten it treated yet. If she hadn’t, she needed to, and if she had, he needed to see, hear, whatever she and Óin would consent to, that she would recover. He could go and check with the Company first, of course, but if she hadn’t gone to them, it would cost him valuable time. So he simply tracked her from the treasury.

Her scent-trail led him through the mountain, deeper and deeper, and the only explanation he could think of was that she’d been too panicked to go anywhere in particular. He tried to find another reason, over and over as her trail went on, but despite the way the thought twisted his stomach into knots, he couldn’t deny that panic was the most likely rationale.

The thought unnerved him more than he really understood. He hadn’t interacted with Bell much since their initial meeting, but she’d impressed him, nonetheless. She’d stood her ground against him, and had continued to do so, but she’d been terrified when he caught her in the treasury. He hated the idea that she was a thief, that she was less than he’d thought of her, but somehow he hated the idea that he’d terrified her, hurt her, even more.

Her trail wound through halls and down staircases, but eventually he found a spot where her scent was stronger, implying that she’d stopped there for at least a few seconds, possibly longer. Her tools were scattered over the ground, and their case, as though she’d forgotten about them. Unease slunk through his veins; if he knew anything about her, it was that she wasn’t that thoughtless.

The size of the corridor meant that he had to keep his wings tightly folded against his sides, and they were already beginning to ache from the constraint; nevertheless, he bent down to sniff at the spot where she’d sat, hoping for some clue. But he couldn’t catch any scent but what he’d followed there, though the fear was mostly faded.

His tail lashed for a moment; he forcibly stilled it after it hit the wall. Why had she run all this way only to drop her tools and keep moving? It didn’t—

His head snapped up quickly enough for him to nearly crack his skull open on the ceiling; she was leaving!

Before that instant, he hadn’t realized that her hair, or maybe her eyes, made him consider her ‘his treasure’ to the extent that he could sense her like he could his gold, but that didn’t matter, because she was outside the mountain.

A thunderous growl made the tools jump and dance on the stone, and he bolted forward. Trespassing was one thing, but he hadn’t thought her capable of breaking her word so completely. She knew the consequences, knew that he would burn Lake-town for this (though, of course, he wouldn’t; it was only a bluff), and still, she left.

It took him long minutes to wind his way through the narrow halls, but he moved swiftly once there was room for him to truly run, and even more so when he could fly. He twisted through the break in the gates reflexively, fifty years of habit ensuring that he was vertical just as he soared through the opening, his roll continuing until he leveled out a scant second later, and he circled the nearest current quickly. Tracking her by scent would take time, but he’d spot her easily from the air, even with clouds blocking the moon as they were. He scanned the ground between the mountain and Lake-town first, of course, then, seeing no movement whatsoever, he circled Dale, listening intently for a hiding Hobbit.

But she wasn’t there, either. Cursing the day he’d brought her to the mountain, he circled Erebor, spiraling out from the peak; it wasn’t as fast as other methods, but it was the only way he could be sure. Seeing nothing, he flew lower; when it came, the distant yelp of a wounded animal, wolf or warg, was barely audible. Dread forming a dense pit in his gut, he wheeled around to aim for the woods on the north-east face of the mountain, hoping, praying to Eru, that he was wrong, that Bell wasn’t there, that she was on her way to her father, to safety.

But there was no hope of that, was there?

 

Bell let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as her feet felt grass and soil. Despite her wounds’ throbbing, she allowed herself the luxury of sitting for a few minutes. The fresh air had cleared her head, for the most part, and she’d been able to find the little forest fairly easily. Her shoulder still hurt, but the pain had faded marginally, enough that it wasn’t overwhelming any longer, and she had to wonder how much of it had been shock, or if she was simply growing used to it, or if she was beginning to heal already. Hobbits did heal a bit faster than Men, but she’d never had more than a blister on her fingertip before, so she had no idea how long it would take a burn this size to heal.

But she could feel in the soil that there was water nearby, enough to nurture a forest such as this. For it wasn’t just grass; the trees were much more plentiful than the woods around Hobbiton, though they weren’t as big; the undergrowth was more abundant, as well, and reminded her of Mirkwood. But only visually. Mirkwood had been pure poison, where this, this was a thriving, healthy, blooming forest, even if it did seem remarkably young. 

She sat back on her good hand and examined the vegetation thoughtfully. Most of the plants she could see were similar to plants in the Shire, but different enough to be largely unfamiliar. Even the trees followed that pattern, most of them similar to the beeches in the Shire, but even the most similar were oddly shaped, twisting up rather than standing. But if they followed the same sort of growth as the trees she knew, then they were a handful of decades old, at most. And with how thick the undergrowth was, the moistness of the soil, she thought the forest as a whole could easily be quite a bit younger than her estimation.

But she couldn’t stay there for long. There was water nearby, there had to be, and if there were snails anywhere to be found, they’d be near the water. Smiling, she shook her head faintly at the inanity of it all, as she did every time she had to treat burns.

_“Now, the best kind of snails— stop laughing— are garden snails— Bell, this is serious, you need to pay attention— but freshwater will do in a pinch, or slugs, if that’s all you can fin— Bell, focus!”_

Bracing herself against a tree, she pushed up to her feet; her head pounded along with her shoulder as she did, and she had to stay where she was for several seconds until the ground stopped rocking back and forth. This was a nice forest, she decided as she walked (stumbled) through. It wasn’t like the forests in the Shire, but she liked it anyway. After the barren starkness that was the land around Lake-town, the explosion of life that surrounded her was rejuvenating. Part of her wanted to compare it to sinking into a hot bath after being in the snow for hours, but it had been so long since she’d had a proper, Hobbit-y hot bath that she wasn’t sure she could remember it well enough for the comparison.

Oddly enough, there wasn’t much fauna, though she was sure a forest like this would support plenty of birds, squirrels, mice, deer, foxes, badgers…

She lost her train of thought; she started to shake her head, but desisted when it made her head pound again. It didn’t really matter, anyway. She’d find the water, then the snails, then she’d take some back to the mountain. 

Dimly, she thought she remembered that there’d been something about it, some kind of rule, something she’d said…

She couldn’t remember. That didn’t matter, either, though. She’d find the snails and go back, and then she’d apologize properly to Ko—

She stopped at the edge of a clearing, good hand on a tree, steadying her as she swayed. Kobor had burned her.

Heat built behind her eyes, though she couldn’t tell whether it was angry or hurt. He’d burned her, he’d done this to her. The cut, she would have accepted as consequence for trespassing, but the burn…

She didn’t know what she’d do. Could she go back, when he’d proven that he was the monster she’d feared he was at first? Could she not go back, when it would cost her family their lives, not to mention hundreds of other, innocent people? Oh, and the Master and Alfrid. But even them— She didn’t want them dead. Never to see them again, for them to be shipped off to the other side of Arda, for them to be shown to be the disgusting leches they were? Yes. To all of those. But not dead. Even as horrible as they were, she’d never be able to live with herself if she caused their deaths.

So she’d go back. Back to the mountain. Back to an enclosed (if huge) space with a creature who breathed fire and was willing to use it on her—

A sob escaping her, she had to lean heavily against the tree to keep from falling to her knees. She was shaking just at the thought of seeing Kobor again, how could she trap herself with him now she knew what he was?!?

And therein was the problem. She’d agreed to be his prisoner when she didn’t know what to expect. But then, after making her think that he wasn’t so bad after all, she learned exactly what she could expect from him. Now she knew, she wasn’t sure she was brave enough.

But it was her family at stake. If she was a coward, they would die. They would burn, they would feel what she was feeling, but a thousand times worse.

She couldn’t do it. 

She had to do it.

She wasn’t brave enough.

She didn’t have a choice.

Another sob lodging in her throat, she closed her eyes, ignoring the tears that spilled over her cheeks, and prayed in a desperate, hopeless whisper, “Eru, guide me. Help me.”

The few seconds after her broken plea were silent. Even the wind had died down. Sniffling, she wiped her cheeks and leaned her head against the bark for a moment. Then, squaring her shoulders (well, her good shoulder) as the wind picked up from the opposite direction, she readied herself to keep moving.

A growl filled the forest, and she froze; for a panicked second, she thought it was Kobor. Then she realized that it wasn’t nearly deep enough to be him; that wasn’t comforting, for some reason. Her shaking resumed, despite her efforts to stop it, as something moved in the darkness. She couldn’t make out any details, only that it was huge, and that it was some sort of animal, as it was on all fours.

Something moved at the corner of her eye, and she realized there was another shape there, back the way she’d come. The starlight wasn’t enough to let her see what was in the shadows; still shaking, she forced herself to back away, further into the clearing. Now that she was facing that way, she saw that there were more than two shadows moving under the trees, none of them smaller than a Man, though they weren’t upright. If she was right about their size, she didn’t even think she’d come up to their shoulders.

Her foot brushed stone, and she stopped, risking a glance behind her. The clearing wasn’t as big as she’d thought it was, she realized; she’d covered half the distance already, and the other half was occupied by a deep valley. It was almost more of a pit than a valley, really, but she could make out trees at the bottom. But it was more than far enough to kill a Hobbit. Turning to look ahead of her again, she had to force herself not to retreat further as one of the shadows moved into the light.

It was a warg. She might have thought it was a wolf, but it was bigger by half than any wolf she’d ever seen, and there was an empty saddle on its back. She’d never heard of a wolf being ridden, but warg-riders were another story. Four more shadows proved to be wargs as they moved to flank their leader; they were all different shades of brown, as far as she could tell in the dim light, and their eyes glowed yellow in a way that left her without the slightest doubt that they could see her perfectly well. The leader lunged forward, maw open in a snarl, and she reacted on instinct.

She threw her knife at it. Specifically, down its throat. 

It stopped with a pained yelp, then began jumping around, clawing at its neck, coughing and retching and yelping and howling, with blood spilling out of its mouth with every move it made. Bell could only watch, horrorstruck, and the other four wargs retreated from their leader, ears flat against their skulls.

An eternity (a minute, at most) later, the warg collapsed, still coughing and yelping, though much more weakly, and its cries grew weaker still, until, finally, it stilled. Bell didn’t need light to see that it was dead. Nothing moved for several moments. Then the remaining wargs looked straight at her, snarling.

She was petrified, again, wide-eyed and shaking just as she had been when it was Kobor in front of her. Kobor hadn’t killed her, for whatever reason. There was no doubt in her mind that these beasts would.

She was going to die. She was going to be torn apart by wild beasts and die screaming, and then Kobor would burn Lake-town. She had no weapons, and she wouldn’t have been able to use them if she did. 

Her foot edged back of its own accord, and she remembered the pit behind her. Would falling to her death be less painful than being torn apart? She thought… maybe.

As the wargs advanced, snarling, she edged her foot back a bit further, bumping a small stone, trying to find the ledge.

Her pulse was roaring in her ears, loudly enough that even the wargs flinched bac—

That wasn’t her. What—

A dark blur slammed down, the impact nearly enough to send her off balance, and she stumbled forward instinctively, away from the edge; she was able to keep from falling, barely, but her heart was still racing as she straightened. In the dim light, he looked like a gargoyle, a creature of night and stone, his spread wings keeping her from seeing his head, but she knew him. Kobor’s sides were heaving with pants or growls or breath she couldn’t hear over the roaring in her ears, and his tail was lashing behind him, beside her, his claws digging into the soil.

Then he roared, and her pulse in her ears didn’t even compare. The sound broke whatever had been keeping everything distant, and now she could hear the wargs snarling and barking, she could hear Kobor growling at them, she could hear her own shaky breathing. The cold bit through her shirt, and she shivered, letting out a quiet hiss as it jostled her shoulder. Kobor’s growl cut off abruptly, and the wing nearest her lifted enough for her to see him looking at her, eyes wide, glow in his throat fading away.

For an instant, they just looked at each other, and there was such an absence of anger or anything dark in his eyes that she couldn’t be afraid of him.

But looking at her meant that he wasn’t looking at the wargs, and they took full advantage of his distraction. They leapt forward, one to his leg, two to his throat, and she couldn’t see the fourth, but she assumed that it did similarly.

Kobor roared, a deafening bellow that had Bell clapping her hands over her ears before she could think, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was her own pain that made tears spill over her cheeks, or his.

She fell to her knees, still covering her ears, and all she could do was watch the scene in front of her. Kobor spun, still roaring, and shook off the three she’d seen, but the fourth was hanging off of his wing, and Kobor’s roars shot a pitch higher every time it moved.

She couldn’t just watch, she had to do something, she had to—

As the three leapt at him again and he batted one aside, she scrambled back to the edge, frantically searching for the rock she’d felt before. The two latched onto the fins and spines on his head; one of them bit through a spine entirely, and blood spurted out in arcs as Kobor fought them.

Her hand closed around the stone, and she realized it was bigger than she’d thought, only just small enough for her to close her fingers around it. As she stood, Kobor flamed at the warg on his wing, fire spreading on his other side, igniting the trees across the clearing from her, though only weakly, the wood not dry enough to really burn; the warg released its grip on his wing with an agonized howl, and it ran, fur blazing. The firelight silhouetted the three remaining wargs, and allowed her to see as one of them leapt for his other wing, but he was still looking the other way, he couldn’t see—

Throwing the stone, even with her good arm, was agony, but the projectile struck the warg in the head just as it reached his wing; it fell as she did, gritting her teeth against the pain, but she was too close to the edge, she was tipping over, she was going to fall—

Something struck her in the side, knocking her back onto the grass, and she realized it was Kobor’s tail as he spun to face her, taking a few steps forward—

The wargs leapt—

He stumbled with the weight of them—

His momentum carried him toward the cliff—

He fell.

The wargs fell with him, howls abruptly cutting off as a resounding _thud_ shook the ground. As she pushed herself up, shaking badly enough that her arm nearly gave out, the moon appeared overhead, a wispy cloud still dimming its light, but she could see, at least. The clearing looked almost ethereal, or as ethereal as a space could look when one side was on fire and there were two unmoving wargs lying on the grass. The warg-leader’s blood had dried enough that it only shone dully in the moonlight, but patches of the second warg’s head glistened where the rock had hit it.

Numbly, she stood, and somehow stumbled to the edge without actually falling over it. The moonlight was just bright enough that she could see Kobor lying at the bottom of the pit, half the skin hanging off of one of his legs, the lower third of his tail harshly bent at nearly a right angle to the rest, the shape of a warg just visible through a long tear in one of his wings, his eyes just open enough for her to see them, nearly colorless in the moonlight.

His eyes fell closed.

He didn’t move, other than his chest rising and falling shallowly.

Her mind raced as she realized; he was unconscious, possibly dying— At the very least, he wouldn’t be able to chase her for some time, and he wouldn’t be able to walk on that leg, and he wouldn’t be able to fly with that wing—

He couldn’t chase her. She could run. She could run all the way to Lake-town, grab her father, Bard, and the Bardlings, they could all run.

She turned to go—

The moonlight shone on the corpses of the wargs she’d killed—

Her stomach revolted against the sight, and she only barely kept from vomiting. She’d killed those wargs. Vicious as they’d been, desperate as she’d been, unintentional as both deaths had been, she’d taken two lives. They were dead because of her.

Breathing ragged, her vision blurred and melted as silent tears poured down her cheeks. She was a healer, not a killer. She didn’t even like fishing. Once the fish was dead, so long as someone else had actually done it, she had no trouble cleaning and cooking it, but she couldn’t bear causing anything pain except to help them.

But she’d killed those two. She was a killer, now.

And she’d been terrified, and they would have killed her without a thought, but she’d killed them and the only reason she didn’t have their blood on her hands was that she’d done it from a distance.

She’d killed them.

If she ran, there was a good chance Kobor would die. She’d kill him by inaction as much as her actions had killed the wargs.

She didn’t know how she’d be able to live with herself knowing that she’d killed those animals.

She wouldn’t be able to live with herself at all if she killed Kobor.

A sob wracked her, and she covered her mouth. Struggling to catch her breath, she turned to look at the cliff again, and stared at Kobor for a long moment. If she wasn’t mistaken, his breathing was more shallow than it had been before.

Closing her eyes as she turned her face to the sky, her voice cracked as she prayed, “Eru, guide my feet.”

As she opened her eyes again, the wispy cloud moved entirely away from the moon, and she realized that the moon was either full or close to it; moonlight flooded the clearing, almost as bright as daylight, and she looked over the side of the cliff again to see that there were hand- and foot-holds trailing down the side, some of them shining in the silver light, others casting definite shadows, and she couldn’t help but chuckle quietly. 

“Well, I suppose that makes your opinion on the matter clear enough.” Scanning the cliff face carefully, she chose what seemed to be the best place to start, took a deep breath, and resolutely ignored the churning in her gut. She had a patient to see to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened. Let me know if I should add a warning for any of the stuff in this chapter. Actually, any chapter. Of anything. I'm really, really terrible at telling what's warning-worthy and what isn't, so just let me know if I sh--  
> Holy crap, I just realized I forgot to link to any of my references! I'm sorry! I hate info-dump author's notes, though, so I'll space 'em out for the next few updates.  
> This week's link is (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tropical_and_subtropical_dry_broadleaf_forests), which is what the forest by Erebor is, with mostly New Zealand-type trees. I know it's a bit of a reach, but I figure since the River Running has its source somewhere in/under Erebor, it's not unbelievable that there could be enough groundwater to support a smallish forest. Plus, I just really wanted there to be a forest there.  
> À bientôt!


	10. April 28, 2934, pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> …When we touched, she didn’t shudder at my paw/ no, it can’t be, I’ll just ignore…

Thorin woke slowly, to the sound of birdsong and running water. His eyelids felt as though they were made of lead, and he tried to raise an hand to rub his eyes, but his arms felt weighed down, as well, and his legs, and his wings and t—

The memory of the curse assaulted him over again, though the time since then was still a blur. Stubbornly, he worked his eyes open, and frowned at the green that surrounded him. Gradually, he made out the shapes of trees reaching above him; for a moment, he thought his eyes betrayed him by making the sky look so small, before realizing that the dark brown and grey bordering the blue were cliffs, stretching as high as the statues of his grandfather outside the gate, if he wasn’t mistaken. He was in some sort of pit, small, pitiful bushes dotting the rock face here and there, but the plants around him were clearly flourishing, though even the tallest of the trees didn’t nearly reach the top of the cliffs.

He lowered his eyes to his immediate surroundings: there were more than a few broken branches and felled trees in his vicinity, and he guessed he’d caused the damage in the fall; the cliff just in front of him dipped away, beginning some twenty feet or so up and curving into a fair-sized cave, big enough for him to stretch out, full-length, and still have room left over; if he was hearing it right, the water was at the back of the cave, a constant trickling, and something splashed as he listened.

Mind still muggy, he tried to raise his head, only to stop with a hiss as his wing protested fiercely; his reflexive flinch only brought more pain, radiating from his upper left foreleg. Carefully, he turned his head to look, his neck just long enough that he could see strips of cloth tied around his thigh between his knee and shoulder, a jagged split in his skin visible between the strips.

A flash of memory struck him, kicking one of the wargs off of him during the fall, its teeth still locked into his leg, distracting him from the darkness rising around him—

“Stop moving; this is hard enough as it is.” His head snapped toward the voice, and he couldn’t help a harsh groan as a fresh wave of pain blazed through him. As he laid very, very still and tried to catch his breath, he heard the same voice, sounding somewhere between matter-of-fact and smug. “Yes, it hurts when you move, doesn’t it?”

Slowly, he eased his head over until he could see the speaker: Bell. She was standing on the other side of his wing, which was stretched over something, and she seemed to be trying to ease some sort of fabric between the thing and his wing. His wing didn’t quite look right; he realized that there were three tears in the skin, one of which reached the edge and was stretched into a wide ‘v’. At the same time he noticed that, he noticed that Bell didn’t have her jacket on; her shirt was just as high-necked at the jacket, but one of her shoulders was bare, and with his eyes still a bit fuzzy, her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight. She was only using one hand, oddly enough; just as oddly, he couldn’t feel a thing as the fabric moved under his injuries.

Another flash of memory returned, the other warg clawing open his wing as they fell, using the bite-marks from the first warg t—

Wargs. They weren’t in Erebor. They— Where were they? Why was Bell out of Erebor when she’d— She’d run. He’d chased. He’d been flying, he’d heard an animal, a warg, found her in a clearing, surrounded. Then…

She was still fussing over his wing, tugging the sides of the largest tear together and somehow getting them to stay put. She looked exhausted, her hands bloodstained, her hair barely secured out of her face, but her hand didn’t falter. Satisfied, she gave a short nod and moved away, around his wing and up a small incline, then started looking over bushes and such closely; the distance revealed that her skirt was gone, and instead she was wearing short trousers. He followed her motions blearily, memory still coming back in bits and pieces.

“I saw you…” She startled slightly at his slurred voice, but didn’t look toward him; he gathered focus and breath alike before continuing. “…Saw you standing atop the cliff. You fell?”

That was the only thing that made sense, anyway. She was silent for a long moment, then answered quietly. “No.” Thorin frowned; if she hadn’t fallen, how was she at the bottom of a pit with him? He opened his mouth to ask, but she yanked a handful of leaves off a bush and held them toward him before he could. “Are these poisonous?”

Gaze fixing automatically on them, he stared for a long moment before his eyes focused enough for him to recognize them. “No— How can you not know that?”

He couldn’t help the incredulous tone, but the flat look she gave him in return was withering. “I did. But you aren’t a Hobbit, are you, or a Man.” She shrugged and turned back to the plants. “How can I know what poisons you?”

The words, the unspoken implication in them, stung almost as much as his leg, but as she was facing the other way, she saw none of his reaction. Irritably, he told himself that she was right, that she’d only spoken what he’d been thinking for fifty years: that he was nothing but a beast, not a King, not even a Dwarf. 

They were both silent for several minutes, he for lack of any rebuttal to her words, she as she wandered around the edge of the grove of trees, plucking leaves here, berries there, entire plants every so often. He watched her when she was in view, for lack of anything better to do but stew. When she wasn’t, he turned his thoughts to the night before, and slowly coaxed the rest of his memory into place. Right arm full of various plants and such, he wondered for a moment why she didn’t use the other. Then he saw. “Your shoulder.” She froze. “What happened?”

For a moment, she didn’t move. When she did, it was to fix him with a venomous glare, eyes shining. “That’s not funny.” 

Her voice shook, and he didn’t understand; while he was speechless, she continued on her path to set her load down somewhere out of sight, possibly in the cave. He didn’t understand. If he pushed himself, he could just remember seeing her shoulder like that before the fight with the wargs really started, but she hadn’t been injured before that, in the treasury. She moved back into view, wiping her cheeks roughly, and he called to her, “I wasn’t trying to be funny. What happened to your shoulder?”

A harsh sound left her, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Let’s see, how could I have been burned— After all, it’s not as though I’m talking to a fire-breathing beast.”

With the last, she gave him another glare, this one, if anything, even blacker than the first.

He still didn’t understand. She couldn’t mean—

The treasury— He’d flamed— But— No, it hadn’t been close enough— Hadn’t been hot enough—

“You…” Her jaw clenched; he shook his head faintly, ignoring the pain. “No, no, that wasn’t enough to…”

His voice gave out as his eyes locked on her shoulder again. At the edge of his vision, she leveled a flat look at him. “Yes, obviously, you didn’t breathe fire at me, my jacket just spontaneously combusted. How could I forget.”

Still glaring at him, she turned on her heel and walked into the grove, out of view. This time, he realized that she was limping, just enough to be perceptible, and there was a makeshift splint on her injured foot. It only made the pain in his chest go from a dull pounding to a sharp throbbing.

He’d done that. Maybe not himself, but she was hurt, all of her injuries, were because he hurt her in the treasury, he flamed at her, he burned her—

Over thirty years, thirty-five years since he last slipped, since he’d ignited Nori, the realization that he’d missed Fíli’s fortieth birthday tipping him past the point of control. New feathers had sprouted within days to replace what he’d burned off, and Nori had felt no pain, but that had been the day he’d begun intentionally exhausting his fuel supply. That had been the day he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let himself get so out of control again.

He hadn’t slept at all for a week afterwards, and then had barely slept for months.

And now he’d burned Bell.

She was in pain, it was obvious, and a burn such as that wouldn’t heal quickly or cleanly. 

And he’d caused that.

If he’d had anything of substance in his stomach, he would have been sick. As it was, his stomach roiled at the image of her burns, and her screams echoed in his ears.

It was no wonder she’d looked at him with such hatred. The only surprise was that she was treating him at all. A Dwarrowdam would have left him to die. She should have left him to die. He’d been worse than a beast to her, he’d been a monster, he was a monster, and if the curse was teaching him anything, it was that he would always be a monster.

She had to be in agony. And yet she was treating him. Why, why wouldn’t she run, why should she help him when he—

He—

He could have killed her. If he’d flamed just a few inches to the side, he might have killed her, and he wasn’t even sure he’d have noticed until he restored his hoard to its rightful state, when he’d been such a blind, thoughtless, selfish beast not to notice that she was hurt, that he’d hurt her. He could have killed her.

The last thought, and an image of her charred corpse that he was holding in mind to make certain he never hurt her again, was still at the forefront of his mind when she returned, not that he noticed for a few moments. He only realized she was there when she spoke, in a stunned whisper that barely reached him. “…You… You actually didn’t mean to burn me, did you?”

Despite hearing the words, it was a few seconds before he actually understood them, and by the time he focused on her where she stood at the tip of his wing, she was watching him with an unreadable, considering expression. A few moments later, she tilted her head with a tiny half-smile, brow furrowed as though she were confused by something, or perhaps saddened. As she shook her head, her bearing relaxed somewhat, save for her injured shoulder, which she was still favoring; still shaking her head with that odd little smile, she disappeared into the cave.

His mind was still whirling, and still a bit muzzy, but one thought had made its way to his lips by the time she came to stand by the tears in his wing again. “You should leave.”

She looked up at him with surprise, but he couldn’t tell whether it was simply because he’d spoken or because of what he’d spoken. Her expression cooled into consideration for a few moments, but in the end, she simply turned her attention back to his wing, setting a plate of green mush in the space of the ‘v’.

She’d heard him, he was sure, but he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t leaving. “Just go.” She didn’t even look up. “Leave me, go back to your father.” His voice broke on the last, remembering how he’d scared the old man.

Now she spoke, sounding almost bored. “I understand that you take pride in your melodrama, but please, do try to refrain for the time being.” Tone a bit patronizing, she continued before he could stop gaping. “Even if it were possible for me to climb out of here and leave you to die, I wouldn’t. That’s a horrible thought.” 

Apparently seeing something in his injuries that he couldn’t, she nodded to herself and limped back to the cave, returning quickly with an odd little tool, clearly rough-made with a stick and moss or something similar, a thread of what looked to be the same color as her jacket fastening the moss to the tip and thus creating a usable, if primitive, brush. Confirming his guess at its purpose, she dipped the moss end into the green mush and began dabbing it onto the torn edges of his wing. He couldn’t help a twinge of fascination at the sight, never having seen such a subtle, if unglamorous, display of ingenuity. No Dwarf would even think of using plants as components.

But one specific word was still haunting him. “‘Possible’?”

She stilled for a heartbeat, clearly fully aware of what he was referring to, then sighed and continued tending his wounds. “I have one usable arm,” she began quietly, “the climb included having to jump down several times when the distance was too great for me to reach, and I certainly won’t be able to jump up those sections.” She chuckled hollowly. “And, to add insult to literal injury, I landed rather badly once I got to ground.” What little air was in his lungs left him at that, and she was quick to elaborate, “Just my ankle— it’s not broken, but I doubt I'll be able to put any real weight on it before tomorrow, at the earliest.”

With that, she fell silent, focusing on her work; she was going over all three tears, and being careful to cover every fraction of an inch of injured skin, and as such, was only now beginning the third tear. He watched her for a minute or two, bewilderment joined by a dose of respect that not only was she working despite her injuries, she’d never so much as hinted at wanting sympathy the entire time she’d spoken. But his gut was still in knots that she was injured at all, no matter if she was ignoring it. And she was trapped with him. She was trapped with the man, the beast who’d caused all of her pain, directly or otherwise. “…I’m sorry.”

She snorted quietly. “Didn’t I tell you to stop being dramatic? I knew what I was doing when I made the climb. I chose this.”

Frowning, he started to ask— he didn’t know what he was going to ask, how she could stand to look at him, let alone touch him, why she would ‘choose this’ in the first place, how she knew how to make whatever-that-was— but his wing gave a painful twinge as she pressed a bit too firmly, and the unspoken question turned to a low hiss.

Her head snapped up, and she stared at him for an instant, wide-eyed and clearly alarmed, then bent over his wing again and continued, a bit gentler and far faster than before. The lingering ache reminded him that he had holes in his wing, and his mind whirled; he should have been in agony, but although his leg was throbbing, he felt nothing more than a dull ache in his wing. “What are you doing?”

A few more strands of hair escaping to spring into curls around her face, she answered distractedly, eyes fixed on her work. “It’s a numbing agent; bit simple, but it works, until it wears off, anyway.”

He scowled; if she had a palliative, why wasn’t she using it on herself? “W—”

“Wait— you’re awake!” Her eyes snapped to him much as they had a moment ago, but this time she looked almost excited. “Then—” Wide-eyed, she looked to the grove for a instant, then smeared the green paste, ungently, but almost feverishly quick.

“What in Mahal’s name—?!”

“Shut up.” Out of sheer shock, he obeyed, gaping at her while she shot off an explanation. “The anodyne is effective, but half the reason I’m using it is that I couldn’t pull together anything better, but now you’re awake—” Applying the last bit of palliative, she tossed her brush onto the plate and rushed just out of sight. Craning his neck, Thorin was just able to see her bustling around a small fire-pit, and she kept talking as she did. “I’m good at building fires, I used to go camping with my mother all the time, but I never bothered to learn how to start a fire without a flint, so—” Grabbing a long branch tipped with a cluster of dry leaves, she rushed back over to him, limping a bit more than she had been, but enthusiastic nonetheless. “Light this for me.”

He stared at her for a long moment; she fidgeted. “You want me to breathe fire at you?”

Frowning at him, she shook the branch pointedly. “No, I want you to breathe fire into the air, and then I’ll put the end of this into it. It’s long enough that I shouldn’t need to get close.”

“Are you insane?”

Her frown dropped into a dark scowl. “No, I’m a healer—”

“What am I saying—”

“—your healer—”

“—of course you’re insane—”

“—in case you haven’t noticed—”

“—if you’re so willing—“

“—my saving your life—”

“—to get yourself burned again—“

“—so shut up—”

“—by the same monster who—”

“—and listen to your healer!” On the last word, she hit him in the face with the branch, effectively cutting off the rest of his tirade as he had to spit leaves out of his mouth. Glaring at her, he didn’t get a chance to speak before she did. “I need a fire to mix a proper treatment for you, and without a flint, the only way I can start a fire is if you do it for me. As. I. said, I’m a healer. I have ten years of experience, and I can say with a fair amount of certainty that if your wing isn’t tended to properly, it will scar, and you may lose your ability to fly.”  His eyes widened, and she held them grimly. “I can’t say that for certain, but I would imagine that having holes in your wing would affect things.”

“I’d imagine so, as well.” Realizing how weak he sounded, he scowled and looked away, but he couldn’t help it. Flight was one of the only bearable things about the curse, and certainly the only one he actively enjoyed. He’d be able to bear a flightless life once the curse was broken, once he was a Dwarf again, but as a dragon…

He’d rather be legless. And he did mean that literally.

Scowling at the sky, he let heat build in his chest, and heard her moving about as she noticed the glow. The necessity of (literally) burning through his fuel every few days meant that he’d figured out several ways to shape the blaze, and so, now, he kept the flames low, small, and in a tight, vertical column, only just large enough to light the leaves. As soon as she lit them, he stopped flaming, and watched as she lit the fire. She set the branch down at the side of the cave where it would burn out in its own time, then limped to the grove, holding another flat plate of rock, this one a bit smaller than the first, barely big enough to cover her spread hand, he estimated.

He couldn’t see her for several minutes, but she returned with a mound of something on the plate. Using a smaller rock, she scraped it onto a much larger plate, then carefully set it over the fire, using rocks set at each of the corners to support it.

He tilted his head. “What are you doing?”

She glanced at him sidelong, but answered easily. “Melting sap. I’d prefer to have charcoal to mix into it, but I’ll have to make do with leaves for now, I suppose.”

Bewildered, he tilted his head further. “Why?”

Smirking, she tilted her head, leaning, to match him, and he realized he was nearly upside down. “Don’t dragons seal their wounds?”

Flustered, he searched for an explanation. “No, th— we don’t. But I’ve seen Dwarves suture their wounds.”

She straightened, wrinkling her nose. “What, sewing them like Men do?” Grimacing, she shuddered. “Rúna tried to teach me, years ago, but—” Paling noticeably, she shuddered again.

Straightening somewhat, he laid his head on the ground, trying to find a comfortable angle. “What do Hobbits do, then?”

Raising a brow, she nodded pointedly to the fire. “Glue. Binds the wound together with the added bonus of keeping it covered.”

He couldn’t hold back a stream of shocked Khuzdûl curses, and she rolled her eyes.

“How many times must I ask you to stop being so dramatic? It’s perfectly safe, there’s no risk of infection, and besides, what else are we to do? We’re hardly as strong as Dwarves or Elves, or even Men. We use glue for nearly everything, really, rather than nails or such, so we ought to know what we’re doing with it by now, don’t you think?” Brushing off her trousers, she stood and moved to his wing again, looking over it carefully. “Any pain? The anodyne should be taking effect by now, but since you’re the largest patient I’ve ever had, I can’t be sure.”

The comment stung, but his wing didn’t; he was careful not to move it quickly or enough to dislodge his wounds from whatever they were resting on. Actually… He tilted his head. “What’s under my wing?” She gave him a look, and he added, “No, there’s no pain.”

With a satisfied smile, she took a few steps back. “Can you… um.” Looking a bit lost, after a moment she extended her good arm sideways, then bent it shallowly at the elbow. “Just a bit. There just needs to be enough slack to pull the tears closed.” Annoyed that she was ignoring his question, he narrowed his eyes at her; sighing pointedly, she lowered her arm into a conciliatory gesture, tilting her head the opposite way as his, which, whether she knew it or not, had the effect of baring her neck to him. “Move your wing and I’ll tell you while I’m prepping the wounds.”

For a few slow heartbeats, he just looked at her. He hadn’t been around living, breathing people since the curse, other than the few minutes he’d spent with both Bagginses before. The elder Baggins had been nakedly afraid, which had been oddly disquieting; at the time, he hadn’t really been thinking about the fact that the Hobbit was a person, only that he was treasure. 

When he met Bell to take her back to Erebor, she’d hidden her fear admirably, and he hadn’t realized until later that it had been his draconic side that had been so pleased with her courage. And now…

Aside from how her head was tilted, her bearing wasn’t submissive in the slightest, and he didn’t doubt that she was only unknowingly acknowledging him, but…

According to the way of thinking the curse forced on him, she was treasure. She was his. She was accepting those facts.

And her capitulation felt right in some draconic, bone-deep way.

Kobor was practically purring.

Thorin wanted to vomit. 

Dís was yelling at him to stop thinking of himself in the third person.

But even the ghost of his sister’s voice didn’t stop him from stubbornly reminding himself, _‘she is_ _not_ _a possession, she is_ _not_ _mine to command, she is_ _not_ _mine_ ’.

But he couldn’t even force himself to think that she wasn’t treasure. In that, at least, his disparate sides were in agreement, though in different ways. 

Kobor only saw her hair and eyes. Thorin saw the fact that she’d sacrificed her freedom to save her father, and, for some reason, to help him.

…He could hear Dís again.

Carefully, he bent his wing as Bell had asked. Learning to manipulate them had been easier than he might have thought; the structure was like nothing more than an excessively-large hand. Really, the hard part had been getting used to either having two sets of hands or two sets of feet, depending on how he thought of his forelimbs.

Half a century of being a dragon and he still hadn’t decided.

So, really, what he was doing was bringing his fingers a bit closer together, while moving his pinky closer to his side. He made sure to move slowly, and she called for him to stop after a few moments. Delicately, she slid a hand under the now-slack skin and lifted it from below as though it were a sheet, repositioning each tear, one by one, so that the green lines on the edges of the wounds were the only obvious sign that anything was wrong. 

She still hadn’t said a word, and she walked past the fire, out of sight, and fetched a sopping square of fabric before she followed through on her promise. “Do you remember falling?”

She began dabbing at the green, wiping it carefully off; he watched intently, fully aware that if he looked away, he’d have no idea what she was doing. He couldn’t feel a thing. “Yes. There were two wargs that fell with me, weren’t there?”

It only now occurred to him that he didn’t know what had happened to them. She bit her lip for a moment, but conspicuously didn’t meet his eyes. “One of them fell past the trees on your other side, somehow. The, ah… The other one’s right here.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. One moment. “WHAT?”

She flinched back at his voice, eyes flying shut and hair flying back from the force of his shout, but glared at him a moment later. “Don’t you dare make a production out of this—”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW DISEASED THOSE THINGS ARE?!”

Still glaring at him, she roared back, “OF COURSE I DO!” (Part of Thorin didn’t like that she was challenging him. Part of him respected her for it. Mostly, he wanted to know what she’d say next.) Subsiding slightly as he didn’t react, she went back to her work, but met his eyes every few seconds. “I didn’t have a choice. Moving your wing was impossible without jostling your injuries, moving you was just impossible, and even if I were at my best, I’m not sure I could move a warg-sized deadweight.” 

Stepping back, she held up a single finger, then moved out of sight; he heard water splashing for a minute or two, then she returned, the square of fabric free of green and once again sopping.

As though she hadn’t stopped at all, she continued, “For now, all I can do is try to keep your wounds clean until you heal enough to move on your own—” He opened his mouth, but she glared at him before he could get a word out. “—which isn’t going to be for a full day, at least.” She watched him closely for a moment, but when he did nothing but close his mouth (looking somewhat disgruntled), she went back to her work. “If it were only your wing, I’d let you move tonight, but with your leg in the condition it is, I’m not sure I’ll want you putting any weight on it for several days. Tomorrow, if it’s healed well enough, I might let you move to the cave, so long as you don’t use that leg at all, but there’s also your tail. I’m still not sure what to do about that, to be honest.”

He blinked at her. “What?”

She blinked back at him. “You haven’t… Oh.” 

Her expression was odd, half-hesitant, part-pitying, part-concerned. “What’s wrong with my tail?”

He hadn’t tried to move it yet, hadn’t really tried to move anything but his head and neck after he realized his leg and wing were injured, but he tried now, and the world blazed. He didn’t fear fire, hadn’t even before he was literally fireproof, but this fire was different, blazing through him in a way that put his leg to shame, and it took him several minutes afterwards to catch his breath. Once he did, he realized that Bell had finished cleaning off his wing, and was now stirring crushed leaves into the glue with… Wait, what?

“Your tail’s broken. I put it back into position as best I could, but there’s only so much I can do.” She met his eyes sympathetically. “I don’t think it’s going to heal right. I don’t know if that’ll affect anything, but…”

She shrugged and began scraping some of the glue onto a smaller plate of rock, the same she’d had the palliative on, he thought. But his eyes were still on her utensil. “Is that…”

She met his eyes again, then looked to the object in her hand. “Oh, right. Um.”

He stared at her incredulously. “You’re using one of my spines as a stirring spoon and all you can say is ‘um’?”

Setting the severed spike on the edge of the cooking-rock, she wrapped her hand in fabric and picked up the plate with the glue on it; she glared at him as she moved to his wing. “One of the wargs bit it off before you fell. I didn’t know if it could be reattached or something, so I dropped it down before I started climbing. It’s a good thing I did; it’s completely fireproof, and the closest thing I have to a tool down here.”

Carefully, she tipped the plate over the first of his wounds and let a thin stream of glue fall onto his wing, moving the plate to ensure that the tear was completely covered. He barely noticed, too focused on trying to see where the lost spine had been cut from. He couldn’t move the spikes consciously, but he did have some sensation in them, mostly feeling air currents and such. 

“Far side, near the bottom.” He glanced at her, but she was already moving back to the fire, plate empty. But she was right; following her directions, he found the amputated spine easily. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt overmuch. It ached, and he suspected if he moved more than he had been that it would protest along with his other wounds, but it didn’t hurt more than a tattoo.

By the time he looked up again, she was walking back to him, a fresh load of glue on the plate and steaming slightly in the coolish air. “You don’t think it’s morbid?”

Starting to cover the second tear, she shook her head, then bobbed it from side to side. “Well, it is. But it’s better than nothing, and I wouldn’t be able to treat your wounds properly if I didn’t use it, so what’s the point in letting myself be unnerved?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, and they both fell silent for several minutes as she worked. Then, once she put out the fire and presumably cleaned up a bit, the only thing she said was that she was tired and Eru help him if he woke her, before she disappeared into the cave.

Resignedly, he let his head fall back, wincing at the slight ache the impact brought. He wasn’t tired, and without someone to talk to, he really didn’t have anything to do but stare at his surroundings. The time passed slowly, but he had plenty to think about, anyway. Namely, how they were to get out of the pit. 

The cliffs weren’t sheer, by any means, but she was right; there wasn’t any path he could see that she’d be able to climb one-handed. Even two-handed would be a challenge. Once his leg healed, he thought he’d be able to climb out, but even if there wasn’t any muscular damage, he still couldn’t bear to do anything more strenuous than flex his claws. Not yet.

Which, of course, brought him to an inescapable fact: he probably would have died if she hadn’t risked her own life to treat him. Maybe he wouldn’t have, maybe he would have pushed through the pain and climbed out despite his leg, but he wouldn’t have been able to treat it, and the Company certainly wouldn’t have. If she hadn’t chosen to climb down, he would either have died alone and in pain, or he would’ve been permanently scarred, possibly crippled. As it was, he’d probably have scars on his leg, but even if his wing scarred, it would still heal, and between the two of them, he thought there was a good chance they’d figure out a way to set his tail. She really was surprisingly resourceful.

But all of it was because she’d chosen, she’d chosen to risk her life to save a man—a monster—who’d already kidnapped her and effectively crippled her, at least for the moment. He hoped she’d heal, but Dwarves didn’t burn easily. That clearly wasn’t the case with Hobbits.

A fresh knot of regret settled into his gut. He’d known she was a Hobbit all this time, but he hadn’t really thought of what it meant before. Mahal had made Dwarves hardy: strong; resilient; long-lived; they could handle hot metal at temperatures that he knew would burn Men, though they did have limits; they didn’t fall ill as Men did; and they didn’t heal quickly, but scars tended to be superficial rather than crippling, and, if given enough time, would sometimes fade away altogether.

But what little he knew about Hobbits turned his stomach. They weren’t nearly as strong as Dwarves; he doubted they were more resilient than Men, though he wasn’t certain either way; he thought he remembered that they tended to live about as long as Men, or slightly longer; obviously, they burnt easily; they probably were as susceptible to disease as Men were; and he had no idea how well they healed, or how badly they scarred.

But he also knew that Bell, at least, was intelligent; resourceful; skilled enough to fix Balin and Dwalin; stubborn enough to stand up to him if she knew she was right; compassionate, or at least principled, enough to save him despite what he’d done to her; brave enough to go with him in the first place, and to face him and the wargs since; a capable healer. At the last, he flexed his wing thoughtfully. The palliative was still in effect, but he was more concerned with how well the glue was holding up. But the tears didn’t open when he lifted his wing, and the glue was stiff, but not so much that it couldn’t bend, slightly, to move with his wing. It wasn’t enough to let him fly safely, of course, but he wasn’t worried about moving it at all.

But still, he kept returning to one thought: why had she saved him? No Dwarf would have, few Men would have, and the few Elves that might have would’ve only twisted the situation around for their own benefit. He didn’t even know if any Hobbit would have or if she was in the minority. Of course, Gandalf was the only person he’d ever met who seemed to know anything substantial about Hobbits.

He hadn’t come to any real conclusions, but he couldn’t stop himself from slipping into sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, her saying 'how can I know what poisons *you*' wasn't a jab, just a reference to the fact that she's never treated a dragon before. This and the next chapter were originally together, but that was a freaking monster of a chapter, so I split it. This one's still huge, but it was the best stopping point available.  
> This week's link is for Thorin's description (he basically looks like Cloudjumper from HTTYD2, but gray and brown instead of Cloudjumper's colors, and with forelegs instead of forewings), in one of my favorite gifs of that movie. (https://orig00.deviantart.net/4a18/f/2014/110/8/5/1_by_kittyrulzs12345-d7fb2cf.gif) Not great as far as a view goes, but you can see his face, and that's the most important part. Personally, I feel like Thorin as a dragon would be 2 parts intimidating, 1 part doof.  
> À bientôt!


	11. April 30, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She glanced this way, I thought I saw…

When Thorin woke, it was still evening, streaks of vivid red and orange on the thick clouds overhead, but…

Something was different. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t tell if it was the weather or the sounds of the animals in the grove or something about himself, but something was different.

While he wracked his brain, he looked around for Bell, and eventually heard her in the cave. Half-rolling far enough to the side to sit, he froze at the sight of her sitting in a pool of water; her back was to him, but she had her hair pulled over her uninjured shoulder, which left her bare back visible from just below her armpits up. Eyes wide, he turned his head in the opposite direction; he… really, really didn’t know what to do.

Dwarves were fairly strict about things such as nudity; immediate family was allowable, so long as they were the same sex, and spouses, of course, but in any other case, it simply wasn’t done. He didn’t even feel comfortable listening to the water splashing as she moved. 

After another moment or two, he heard a soft gasp; the splashing changed its rhythm, and he wasn’t surprised to hear her voice. “It’s about time you woke up.”

…Her words were another matter. He barely kept from turning to frown at her. “What?”

The water splashed again, then dripped, and he guessed she was stepping out of the water; her voice was amused when she spoke. “You’ve been asleep for nearly two days.”

This time his head actually turned far enough for him to see the edge of the cave before he caught himself. “WHAT?!”

She chuckled, then hissed quietly. The sound cut through his shock, but he still didn’t let himself look around. “You’ve healed well, though.” Soft footfalls approached him; he risked a glance and relaxed to see that she was dressed, albeit a bit sloppily. Twisting still-dripping hair into a bun, she smiled up at him. “I think your wing’s nearly ready to have the glue taken off, and obviously your leg’s much better.”

What— He remembered his injuries with a jolt and looked himself over. As she’d said, his wing was in far better shape than it had been, though still sore; his leg hurt when he moved it, but not if he was careful to keep it still, and his skin had begun to knit together, even if it did look as though it would scar.

Remembering that she’d been hurt, as well, he leaned down to see her better. “And you?”

She blinked at him for a moment, presumably surprised by his concern, then tilted her head with a half-smile. “I’m all right. My ankle’s a bit sore, but it’s fine otherwise, and my shoulder’s healing well.” To illustrate, she extended her arm sideways and rotated it, wincing. “I still can’t put much weight on it, but I can use it, at least.”

He moved his wing out of the way so he could stand; the pain was little enough that he folded it without a second thought, but pain shot through him as soon as he put an ounce of his weight on his injured leg. Hissing, he drew it up again, but still crouched down further, until he was nearly touching her. She leaned back a fraction, but didn’t move otherwise; he scrutinized the injury, comparing it to his memories of how it had looked before. “How is it already so improved? A Dwarf would take months to heal so much.”

She raised a brow for an instant, but responded easily. “Hobbits heal faster than Men, and at least four times as fast as Dwarves, it seems. It’ll take a few weeks to heal completely, but I’m not even sure it’ll scar.” She cocked her head contemplatively. “Maybe temporarily. I’ve seen that before; Hobbits who have their arms half ripped off or drop a hoe and gash their legs open, but within a few years you can hardly tell anything happened. And I won’t even have dents in my arm, so it seems likely.”

Relief filled him so swiftly that his good leg nearly gave out; rather than tempt fate, he let himself flop to the side, laughing weakly. After a few moments, he realized she might think that he was laughing at her, but she just shook her head at him with an amused smile. “If you feel well enough to be melodramatic, you’re well enough to move into the cave. Go on! Up and in!” 

She waved her hands at him as she spoke; if he’d been her size, he thought she might have tried to move him herself. He didn’t move for a moment, just watched her, but she was persistent, and eventually he gave in. He had to move carefully to keep from jostling his tail, which she’d splinted with a series of sticks and what looked to be the last remains of her jacket. He still doubted that it would heal perfectly, but it would heal somehow, at least.

He noticed, though, that she gave him a wide berth as he moved, and she stayed outside the cave once he was in it. His heart twisted, but he said nothing; with how he’d wronged her, he deserved far less. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, fault her for keeping her distance. 

He looked around the cave as he limped in: as he’d seen before, there were pools of water in the back of it, a modest trickle of water running down the wall of the cave to the largest pool, then a number of smaller pools around the first, obviously fed by it. There were two pools as large as the one she’d been bathing in, half a dozen that were a quarter of the size, and one that was still forming, barely seeming deep enough to put a hand in. One of the smaller pools was tinged green, another red, another grey-brown. 

He looked to her quizzically; she guessed at his question. “The water’s good. Bit metallic-tasting, but good. I’ve been using one pool to wash off blood, another to rinse off the brush, another to wash my feet and hands. I’ve only been using the main pool to drink from, though; I didn’t want to risk contaminating it, so I’ve been careful to stay away from it the rest of the time.” Cheeks slightly pink, she turned away to grab a branch.

Guessing why she was embarrassed, he looked around again, but there wasn’t much else to see. The cave was large enough for her to have full access to the water without coming within a half-dozen yards of him, but it was largely empty. There was a good deal of moss and mushrooms in one corner, but there weren’t even bats.

Which made him wonder, “What have you been eating?” 

She shrugged faintly as she moved to stand at the threshold of the cave. “There’s plenty of mushrooms, and a good deal of plants in the grove. I doubt a Man could eat anything here without being poisoned, but Hobbits aren’t so fragile as that. I haven’t gone hungry.”

She had an odd definition of fragility, but he didn’t press the issue. Her words did, however, remind him of his thoughts before he fell asleep. “Why are you so cold to Gandalf?” She froze, looking down at the branch in her hands. Gently, he prompted, “I know for a fact that he couldn’t have wronged you in any way.”

She stayed silent for several moments, perfectly, chillingly still. Swallowing, she extended the branch sideways, away from her. “Light this.”

He frowned, but he could see her shivering, so didn’t argue; carefully, he stretched forward and blew a cool, narrow flame to the side of the branch, barely close enough to light it, let alone to hurt her. Once it was aflame, she moved to the fire pit and lit the tinder at the base. That done, she collected several more pieces of kindling and added them expertly to the fire, and sat close to it when she was finished, closer than he would have thought someone so recently burned could have stomached. Staring into the flames with her arms around her knees, she opened and closed her mouth several times.

He only waited, and eventually she sighed and rested her forehead on her arms. “Because no matter how much I try to pretend otherwise, I’m still an angry, grieving child who can’t let go of the past.”

Alarmed, he shifted his weight. “What—”

“Don’t.” The word alone wouldn’t have stopped him, but that he could hear tears in her voice… “Not now. Just…” Sniffling, she straightened again. “Suffice it to say that the Shire…” Her voice broke; she wiped her cheeks, and lowered her voice. “We needed Gandalf, and he didn’t come. I always… I always thought that he intentionally stayed away, that he just let it happen, but obviously that wasn’t the case.” More quietly, she added, “I doubt he even knows what happened.”

She didn’t speak for a long while after that, and night fell in the meantime. The light faded quickly, of course, because of the high walls of the pit, but he could hear the slight shift in the ambient noise, as nocturnal animals woke and the rest slept. He didn’t know what to say. Her words could have meant as little as Gandalf had been meant to judge a pie-baking contest, but the way she spoke…

He knew that tone. He knew that grief.

That pain was what he felt every time he thought of Azanulbizar, of Erebor’s fall.

He didn’t know what to say.

Before he could think of anything, she matter-of-factly asked, “In Lake-town I heard of a group of Dwarves who marched on the mountain fifty years or so ago. Was that you and the Company?”

He blinked. “Who told you?”

She gave him a flat stare. “My parents knew Gandalf. The last time they saw him was before they married, so also around fifty years ago. Given his current state, I find it hard to believe that he’d be the only one who used to be something other than what you are. Besides which, the Company may have tried to hide it, but they still let it slip that Dori, Nori, and Ori are sisters, and that Balin and Dwalin, Óin and Glóin, and Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur are brothers.”

She didn’t mention himself and Frerin, he noted; he wasn’t sure whether to be glad he’d given a false name, or wish he’d been more truthful.

Still watching him thoughtfully, she uncurled enough to lean back on her hands. “You were all Dwarves, those Dwarves who passed through Lake-Town, I think. And you, you were the leader, weren’t you?”

He stiffened. “What do you mean by that?” It came out as more of a snarl than he intended, but she didn’t flinch.

“If there’s anything I’ve learnt from living with Bard, it’s that a good leader takes responsibility for those under his command.” Hesitating, she began to trace little shapes in the dirt, only timidly meeting his eyes every few seconds. “And… I’ve heard what happened to Erebor. How it fell. The Company may be imprisoned in those forms, but I can’t imagine there could be a worse fate for a Dwarf than to become a dragon.” She spoke the last quietly enough that he could have pretended he hadn’t heard her.

For a moment, he contemplated doing just that.

Sighing, he laid down with his head on his forelegs. “You’re more intelligent than I expected.”

Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around her legs again. “So I was right, then.”

“Yes.” He hesitated, but continued. “About all of it.”

She looked at him sidelong, brow furrowed. “The Men in Lake-town say that the group of Dwarves was led by the King Under the Mountain.” Jaw clenched, he looked the other way; her next words drew his eyes back to her, though. “I don’t understand. Frerin specifically said that you weren’t the King, that there wasn’t a King at the moment.”

Old, dull pain drew a low growl from his throat. “A dragon cannot be a King.”

His tone was hard, meant to dissuade any further questions; in that, it failed. “…Is there a cure?”

Her head snapped to her. “What?” That had, almost literally, been the last question he’d expected.

But she just held his eyes compassionately. “I assume it’s a curse. Is there a cure? Something I can do?”

He gaped at her. “…You… you would help us, after all I’ve done?”

She sobered somewhat, but the compassion didn’t leave her eyes. “No one deserves to suffer like this.”

That, he could argue, if he wanted. From Smaug to Azog to Thrór to Thranduil, he could name any number of people who deserved to suffer for eternity.

But with how he’d hurt her, the fact that she would turn around and…

…Though, she’d already sacrificed so much to help him when he didn’t deserve it, was it so surprising that she would continue to do so?

…Yes. Yes, it was. Compared to the legions of Elves, Men, and even other Dwarves who’d turned them away for no other reason than their race, their Line, the fact that this tiny, brave, impossibly-forgiving Hobbit would help him so easily would always be astonishing.

He opened his mouth to tell her the cure, that his only hope, his Company’s only hope, was for her to fall in love with him, and he with her, assuming that the curse did mean romantic love—

—but nothing left. He tried again; nothing. She dropped her eyes, turning resignedly back to the fire; he stared helplessly at her profile. He’d never tried to tell anyone about the curse before— there’d never been anyone to tell! But clearly, something about the curse forbade anyone from knowing of the cure, or perhaps just anyone who might be able to break it.

And now she thought he was refusing to tell her. Resignation settling into his chest, once again, he sighed and set his head down on his legs. Quietly, numbly, he murmured, “There is no cure.”

The mere fact that the words left his lips so easily seemed to imply that that was exactly what the curse had wanted him to say, and bile rose in his throat; she looked to him as though she hoped she’d heard him wrong, and pain pushed back the bile to see the genuine sorrow in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He’d barely heard her, and replied automatically. “It’s not your fault.”

She shook her head, turning forward again. “That doesn’t matter.”

Abruptly, the wind shifted; rain fell in sheets, drowning the fire in a heartbeat while she gasped, stiff and open-mouthed at the shock of it. It was a few moments before she even tried to look up, and she began shivering as she did. Her shivers quickly intensified, until they were shudders more than anything else; she wrapped her arms around herself, but that was obviously useless. Her head turned to and fro and he guessed at her thoughts: the grove would be useless for shelter, and there was nothing she could build that would stand up to rain such as this; she obviously couldn’t build the fire again, and if Hobbits were as susceptible to illness as Men, she could fall seriously ill between the rain and the cold; he realized now that the cave was slightly higher than the dirt, and he doubted it would flood, but if it did, at least he could keep her above water.

But that depended on one thing. “Bell!” She didn’t seem to hear him, and he raised his voice. “BELL!” She glanced at him, but didn’t move; her eyes were wide, unsure, and he felt a pang at asking her to come near him when she obviously didn’t want to, but there was no other choice. “BELL, PLEASE!”

Time seemed to slow; lightning reflected in her eyes; she took a breath—

—and stumbled to the cave. As soon as she was close enough, he reached his uninjured wing out and held it over her, blocking the rain; he’d half-expected her to immediately go to the other side of the cave, but she staggered under the full length of his wing and collapsed near the base of it, by his leg. Even through his scales, he could feel the cold radiating from her, the trembling that wracked her, and he shifted carefully, swearing under his breath. Dori and Bofur could feel temperature, unlike most of the Company, and fifty years had lent itself to any number of bored nights. Because of that, he knew the warmest spots of him, the coldest, the best places to carry a passenger, the worst, the best if he wanted to carry an unpleasant passenger, etc.

The muscle at the base of his wing was the warmest spot of his body when he wasn’t breathing fire, and going by how cold she felt, Bell needed all the warmth she could get.

She whimpered quietly as he moved away, but as soon as he laid down again, she molded herself to his side, one of her hands splayed over his skin; his breath caught.

He could feel heat through his scales, pressure, but he couldn’t feel touch. But where she was, he could feel her. 

It had been fifty-two long years since he felt another living being’s touch. 

Heat built in the back of his eyes, and he closed them, curling in an arc around her, carefully folding his wing to cover her other side. Slowly, her shivers faded and the chill left her, and the both of them faded into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update! My niece is a year older, and what sort of Hobbit-AU author would I be if I didn't give out a present to celebrate?  
> Lots of Thorin angst here, but also a little hurt/comfort, so at least there's that?  
> Link for today is (http://78.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3q5ydqQ501rqa0i6o4_250.gif), that's pretty much how I imagine Bell looking, except for with curly hair and silver eyes, obviously. Although, she has her hair tied back most of the time, so yeah, pretty close.  
> À bientôt!


	12. May 1, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New… and a bit alarming…

Awareness crept over Bell slowly, as did a ray of sunlight from behind her, but she refused to open her eyes. She was comfy, cozy, and blissfully warm. Unless there was some dreadful emergency of state, she wasn’t leaving the bed for at least an hour.

Low, sleep-thick chuckling rumbled through her, and she smiled as her husband snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her more securely against his chest. Unashamedly, she snuggled further back into his hold, and her smile widened as she realized he had his leg slung over her hip; she felt him nosing at the back of her head, trying blindly to find her skin for several seconds before he finally laid a gentle kiss on the side of her neck. Still not willing to open her eyes just yet, she twisted in his arms to catch his lips with hers, and felt him smiling to match her.

Bell woke with a start, skin still tingling faintly from the feeling of his beard against her, and had to fight to catch her breath. The dream hadn’t been unpleasant—as far from it as it could be—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so content, but who— why— what…

…What had she dreamt of, again? She strained to remember, but the harder she tried, the further it fled, until she was left with only the ghost of warmth and the peace of having slept more deeply than in a long while.

Petrichor hung in the air, and in a single moment, she remembered the rainstorm, she remembered falling asleep with Kobor, and she realized he was gone. She pushed to her feet with her good hand, wincing as she tested her other arm. Her burns were a little more healed, but not enough for her to have been asleep more than through the night, and still not enough for her to put any real weight on that arm.

Branches snapped as something huge moved outside; she took a reflexive step back before Kobor poked his head around the corner of the cave. His anxious expression melted away as he saw her (a tiny speck in a shadowed corner of her mind wondered when it had gotten so easy for her to read him), though he still seemed tense. “Are you hungry? There aren’t any animals, but I can try to find plants or leaves or… something.”

The fins at his temples flattened back in what she thought was embarrassment as he trailed off; she still wasn’t comfortable enough with him to laugh or tease him, but she did have to bite back a smile. “Thank you, but I’ll get it myself. I need to get up anyway, to treat my shoulder.”

His eyes flicked to her wound as she mentioned it, and his expression fell; he looked away quickly, hiding it. He didn’t argue, only pulled back so she couldn’t see him, and she heard him moving away from the cave. She steeled herself for a moment before leaving, but she barely even saw him before she reached the grove, and then only saw him lay down in the cave. Turning away again, she kept moving, far enough that she couldn’t see him or he her, but close enough that she should be able to hear if he moved; once she did, she sat with her back to a tree, the cave and Kobor behind her.

This was harder than she’d expected. That first day, after she’d realized he truly hadn’t meant to hurt her, she’d made the decision to stop thinking of him as a monster, and after he’d been so obviously remorseful, she’d made the decision to forgive him. But deciding and doing were two different things. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t feel comfortable around him.

She bit her lip. That wasn’t quite true. It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel comfortable around him; if that had been true, she wouldn’t have slept so easily or so deeply beside him, no matter how warm he was. She wouldn’t have felt safe around him.

It was that she couldn’t let herself feel comfortable around him. It was that after ten years of not being able to trust anyone but her father and Bard and his children, she couldn’t quite trust her heart.

But that wasn’t true, either. Her heart had never led her astray in Lake-town; Bard, Rûna, and the Bardlings had always been the only ones she truly trusted, even if there had been one or two others, over the years, she could be friendly with. Her heart hadn’t led her astray in the Shire, though the Shire had been almost impossibly idyllic in hindsight; the worst mistake she’d ever made before her tweens had been to steal mushrooms from the Maggot farm on a trip to Buckland, and she’d laughed with her cousins over it just hours later.

Her heart hadn’t led her astray in Mirkwood. She’d never wanted to go in, none of them had. They’d decided to ignore every warning and go in anyway, and—

…She’d listened to her mind over her heart in Mirkwood. She was doing the same thing now.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t trust her heart. It was that she was afraid to trust him in case she regretted it. It was that she was afraid she was wrong about him. It was that she was just afraid.

Not of him. Somehow, she couldn’t really fear him anymore. Not after the terror of that night had faded, once she’d slept and her mind had cleared. She’d dreamt of the fight, but all the emotion from the actual experience had been gone. Without pain and fear clouding her mind, she’d seen how much he’d protected her. He put himself between her and the wargs when he first landed, then was so distracted when he heard her in pain that he offered the wargs a chance to kill him on a silver platter; when she’d begun to tip over the edge, he’d been the one to knock her back to safety, and that had probably been what led to his fall.

And then, he’d been genuinely shocked that he’d hurt her, and then he’d begged (or came as close as she thought he could to begging) her to go back to her family and leave him to die.

And then almost his first thought when he woke was for her well-being, and then he’d gone almost literally boneless with relief to hear that she would heal without any serious permanent damage.

When she’d first met him, she’d been sure he’d be a monster, but he’d proven to be… well, not kind, but not a monster. Then he’d spoken so dismissively of her and she’d thought he was no better than Alfrid, and then he’d burned her and she’d known he was worse, that he was a monster.

But ever since he landed in the clearing, he’d been proving that she’d judged him too hastily. Or just hastily. Maybe she was right about him, maybe he was a monster—

But that was her mind speaking, not her heart. That was fear.

Her heart insisted that she could trust him, that who he was was the person he’d been for the last few days, not the monster she’d built him up in her mind to be.

Closing her eyes, she prayed again. No words, just a silent, heartfelt plea to Eru to give her strength.

She’d decided to forgive Kobor, to give him another chance, to try and see him as a man, not a monster.

So that was exactly what she’d do.

The day passed in relative silence, apart from her examination of his wounds and his disgusted exclamations as she treated her own.

_“You sound like I did when Rûna first taught me to do this!”_

_“Of course I do— You’ve got snails all over you— It’s horrible!”_

_“But effective, unfortunately. And they’re only on my arm, anyway.”_

_“That doesn’t mak— Wh— Don’t— Don’t you dare!”_

_“What, the big bad dragon’s scared of snails?”_

If nothing else, the fun of chasing him around with a handful of snails had thoroughly banished her nerves, and the hilarity of a dragon the size of Bard’s house shrieking like a little girl and running away from her had entirely demolished the leviathan in her mind. Of course, it didn’t hurt that for all his fright, no part of him, from his wings to his tail, ever came close to striking her, and after they sobered again, he still didn’t try to close the distance between them.

Still, it was good to see that he could laugh and play. She didn’t think she could truly trust anyone who couldn’t relax at times.

So, later that night, it was only with a slight, reflexive hesitation that she built the fire close enough to the cave that she could sit only a few feet away from him. He stiffened, but she ignored him and collected a small pile of huge mushrooms to roast over the fire, and a stick to roast them with. When she sat down, he’d already gotten the fire blazing, and added more wood than she’d gathered so it was higher and hotter than she could manage on her own.

They sat in silence for several minutes, during which she did her best to cook the fungi, but the fact that she only had a stick for a roasting fork meant that it was difficult for her to manage to get every side evenly brown, and after a few minutes, she realized that the tip of the stick was beginning to blacken.

“If I may?” She glanced sideways at him, surprised by the question, but nodded. Slowly, and still not venturing closer than necessary, he plucked a mushroom from her pile and held it over the fire, pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger. He cleared his throat. “So. You, ah, you aren’t tired of mushrooms yet?”

The sheer ineptness of his attempt at conversation was nearly enough to send her into uncontrollable cackles, but she managed to tamp it down to snickers as she replied. “Not by half. Mushrooms aren’t easy to grow in the Shire, so I don’t think I know a single Hobbit who wouldn’t give a day’s meals for a cave of mushrooms like I found over there.” His expression twitched; she leaned toward him and said very seriously, “They’re the standard of currency in the Shire, you know.”

At that, he had to snatch his hand back from the fire before his shaking ruined the mushroom; she couldn’t quite say why she was so pleased to see him laugh, but chalked it up to being amused by a fearsome beast having a case of the giggles. As his laughter faded, he tossed the cooked mushroom to her and picked up another to roast. It was still warm, but he’d laughed long enough to let it cool to the point that she could hold it with her bare hands; cautiously, she took a bite, and hummed happily as she found that it was almost perfectly cooked. “Seriously, though.”

Swallowing, she chuckled at him. “I am serious. Well, not about the money thing,” she snickered again, “but I could quite happily grow fat on mushrooms. It would be nice if there were salt or somesuch, of course, but plain mushroom is still better than almost anything else.” Something flickered in his eyes, and she narrowed hers at him. “What?”

Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his task. “Nothing. Do you enjoy cooking, then?”

She narrowed her eyes further, but let the subject change go unchallenged. “Not especially. Neither my father or I do, really. I think both of us would rather spend the time tinkering, all things considered.”

“You enjoy that, then?”

She raised a brow at him. “Is that so surprising?”

“For someone who isn’t a Dwarf, yes.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. Looking at it that way, perhaps it was unusual. But even so, race didn’t determine everything. She finished her mushroom as she thought, and caught the one he tossed her as she spoke. “I like finishing things. Fixing, yes, but building, too, more than I’d expected. I think… I think I enjoy looking at something and knowing that it’s there and whole and complete because of me. It’s…”

Quietly, he finished, “Fulfilling.”

She looked up at him contemplatively. “Exactly.”

He met her eyes for an instant, then looked back at the mushroom he was roasting. “That may be the most Dwarven statement I’ve ever heard from an O— someone not a Dwarf.”

That was right, he was meant to be a Dwarf. Thoughtfully, she asked, “It’s important to Dwarves?”

“That’s right.” He paused for a moment, then continued; as he spoke, he continued cooking the fungi one at a time, and she ate steadily. “Dwarves are long-lived, compared to Men, but we don’t delude ourselves by thinking we are immortal. We already consider our work, whether smithing, mining, or something else entirely, to be our legacies, but there’s an even greater satisfaction in creating something that will last through the lives of our children, and our children’s children, and so on through the ages. There are works in the treasury which were made in the First Age by— by craftsmen whose descendants can still trace their lines back, and who can look at such pieces and know that their blood runs with the blood of true masters of their crafts.”

There was something in his voice, something that made his words ring in the air with the sort of conviction Hobbits only had when they spoke of Yavanna. Or food. Or family. The last reminded her of his words, and she tilted her head. “Can any of the Company?”

He hesitated, but nodded. “Frerin is a direct descendent of the royal line of Erebor. Balin and Dwalin are close cousins, and Dori, Nori, and Ori are more distant, but still connected. Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur come from Ered Luin, not Erebor, but I believe they do have connections to the Broadbeams, if only very, very distantly.”

“And you?” He froze for an instant, confirming her thought that he’d left himself out intentionally.

“Yes.” He didn’t continue; she didn’t press.

But watching him, she could see the tension in the way he held himself. She still couldn’t fear him, though; he kept his movements deliberately slow, almost gentle, as he held out the mushroom in his fingers. She took it without looking away from him, but he didn’t meet her eyes as he picked another out of the pile. For several seconds, she just looked at him. “Kobor isn’t your real name, is it?”

His eyes snapped to hers as he froze; only the mushroom in his grip catching fire jolted him out of his stupor. Shaking the flames out, he returned to his usual position, keeping the food well out of harm’s way; he didn’t look at her again the entire time, and only spoke marginally louder than the crackling of the fire. “No.”

She hadn’t known him long enough to know him half as well as she felt she did, but even as a complete stranger, she would’ve seen the strain in his expression. “Names are very important to Dwarves, aren’t they?”

He jolted; his claws punctured the mushroom; drops rolled down its sides and hissed as they struck the fire below; she didn’t look away from him. “Yes.”

She hummed noncommittally. Taking a deep breath, she looked deliberately away from him and nibbled on the mushroom in her hands. He relaxed somewhat as she didn’t press the matter, and a few minutes passed in relative silence. He passed her the mushroom he’d impaled in the meantime; it was tougher than the others, but she didn’t let on. Once she’d finished it, she casually asked, “What does ‘Kobor’ mean?”

She’d half expected to brush off the question, but instead he answered quietly, “‘Beast’. It means ‘beast’.”

Slowly, she leveled a flat stare at him. “You named yourself ‘beast’.” He nodded soberly, still keeping his attention on the food in his hold. She snorted. He glanced at her incredulously; she shook her head obstinately without looking at him. “Nope. No, nope, not calling you that. That’s just sheer, bloody melodrama, and I am not encouraging it.”

“…What will you call me, then?” Reflexively, she glanced at him as he spoke; he sounded almost amused, if only bemusedly.

Glaring at him, she opened her mouth to answer… and slowly closed it again, narrowing her eyes at him. There was a better name for him, she knew there was, could almost feel it on the tip of her tongue, but nothing leapt forward. Thoughtfully, she eyed him. “…I don’t know. I’ll find it, eventually. For now…” Several possibilities occurred to her, but most didn’t quite seem to fit. After a few moments, she settled on “[Diarmait](https://www.behindthename.com/name/diarmaid). For the time being, I’ll call you Diarmait.”

He was still looking at her oddly, as though he didn’t know what to make of her, but after a few moments his brow furrowed. “‘The time being’? Surely you won’t have time before you leave.”

She matched his expression. “How quickly do you think I’ll be leaving?”

She didn’t have any intention of leaving before he was completely recovered, obviously, which could be as long as eight weeks, based on what she’d seen of the speed of his healing thus far. But even if he recuperated more quickly than she expected, she wasn’t sure she’d leave right away. Some part of her, the same that found it so easy to read him, felt strangely reluctant to go. He never had stated any length of time, to her father or herself, but she’d assumed that he intended her to stay for some time. She’d made all her plans based on that assumption, and perhaps because she hadn’t had any thought of returning quickly, she’d let herself view Erebor as her residence, not as a campsite.

The thought of never seeing it again, never finishing her plans for the King’s Suites, never speaking to Bofur, Nori, Ori, Frerin, or the others, and especially Diarmait, felt as though she were pulling the rug out from under herself. As though she were falling from a foundation she’d already built too tall to be abandoned easily.

She didn’t quite understand how it had grown on her so quickly.

But he answered quickly, if a touch remorsefully, “I never meant to keep you for longer than a few months, you or your father. I only needed you to fix Balin and Dwalin, and then a bit more time to persuade you not to speak of what you’d seen, and then I was going to let you return to your family.”

For several seconds, she could only gape at him, but she could see the sincerity in his eyes. And thinking back, his focus had always been on her (and her father’s) skills. Yet again, she regarded him for a long moment; the version of him in her mind crumbled half away.

Calmly, she made her decision, and she half-smiled at him wryly. “You’re forgetting something, though.” He tilted his head; her smile widened a fraction. “With the way Balin’s been jury-rigged, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks again. And I’ve never even seen the inside of a music box before, so who’s to say Dwalin won’t have more problems, either? But…” Pausing, she again thought over her decision, and she nodded to herself. “Give me time, a few weeks, months,” years, “I don’t know, and I think I’ll be able to come up with something better for them. I’m hardly the innovator my father is, but… yes, I think I can, with enough time.”

The implication in her words clearly didn’t escape Diarmait, not that she was really trying to obscure it. He stared at her, expression unreadable. “You… you would do that for someone not even of your race?”

The words were hard, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that made her wonder just how many times he’d been refused help for that exact reason. How many times he’d dealt with people like the Master. All the fine words she might have used to explain herself fled, and so she simply shrugged. “They need help.”

He looked so astonished that her false perception of him crumbled away entirely; she couldn’t fear someone who looked like that, not when all she wanted to do was drag him to the Shire for all her cousins to fuss over like a kicked puppy, to show him that not everyone was as heartless as whatever Men he’d known.

A memory came back to her, a day decades before, possibly before she was even in double-digits, when she’d found a half-drowned cat in the middle of a rainstorm, and carried him home to beg her parents to let her keep him. He’d died the summer before the Fell Winter, the sweetest cat in the Shire, at the end. But at the beginning, he’d been hostile to everyone but her, and he hadn’t even let her pet him.

Obviously Diarmait wasn’t a pet, though he was a bit feline. But he was cursed. Metaphorically, at least, half-drowned. And he said that there wasn’t a cure, but that only meant that he didn’t know of one. Perhaps if she stayed, she could find a way to help them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, was that opening scene surprising? Were you shocked? Wondering if I'd put a chapter from another story in here? *cackling* Part of me hopes so, part of me hopes it fits fairly well. But I hope no one has any objections to more dream scenes; there's a few.   
> Diarmait is an Irish name (one guess what language I'm using for Hobbitish in this fic) and yes, I chose it for a reason. (^u^)  
> Link for this week is (http://conceptartworld.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/The_Hobbit_An_Unexpected_Journey_Concept_Art_NK_Thrors_Prologue_Armour_Breakdown_02.jpg), which is how I imagine Frerin looking. Also, if you've seen FMA(:B), you can probably guess what he sounds like. Not like a kid, I mean, but that kind of echoey, tinny, clearly-not-a-person-in-there quality. Also-also, dude's loud. He's a walking, clanking metal can. Subtlety, thy name is Durin.  
> À bientôt!


	13. May 2, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> …But then, she’s never looked at me that way before.

A small hand on his arm pulled Thorin out of his thoughts, and he caught it gently, raising it to his lips as he smiled up at Bell. She smiled back at him in that ‘would-you-stop-being-so-sweet’ way he loved, and outright grinned when he tugged her into his lap. She fit against him perfectly, and he took a moment to relish in the feeling of only being head-and-shoulders taller than her.

He blinked. Wait. When had the curse been broken?

It obviously had, seeing as how he was currently a Dwarf, but he couldn’t remember the event itself for the life of him.

Cool fingers carded through his beard and brought his attention back to his wife—

Wait, wife—

That made no sense, they weren’t married, they were barely even friends, but somehow the idea of her being anything but his wife felt as foreign as being a dragon—

Gently, she tugged him down to press her forehead against hers, and he relaxed at the touch. “Thorin, what’s wrong?”

Delicately, he shook his head. “I can’t remember how we got here. I don’t remember anything since…” He wasn’t sure exactly when.

But Bell finished his sentence, voice shaking just enough to be perceptible. “The second night we spent together in the cave?” His eyes shot open, and he realized that she looked just as troubled as he felt. “Neither can I. I can’t even remember how I know your name is Thorin.”

He chuckled hollowly. “Or how I’m a Dwarf?”

The words came out more bitter than he intended, but her expression softened, and she traced his temple lightly, leaving a trail of embers in the wake of ice. “No, no, that I know.” He frowned at her in (slightly) exaggerated confusion, and a shy smile crept over her. “Your eyes. They’re a bit different, but the color’s the same.” She cupped his cheek; he leaned into it far enough to kiss her palm. “You’re the same.”

Her smile was still shy, and now her cheeks were rosy. For a few moments, he just stared at her, drinking in the sight of her. He wanted nothing more than for this to be true, for the curse to be broken, for them to be married, but… “This is a dream, isn’t it?”

She nodded, just as sadly as he’d spoken. “I think so. I think we had another, last night, but I couldn’t remember any details when I woke. I couldn’t even remember that it was you.”

At the way her voice broke, he leaned down to touch his forehead to hers again, but he frowned as he thought back. “I remember the dream now, but after I woke, I didn’t remember dreaming at all, even a flicker.”

Frowning as well, she toyed idly with his beard as she spoke; with a slight jolt, he realized it was a good few inches longer than he’d been keeping it since it first came in. “That’s strange. And you were gone when I woke; how long had you been awake?”

“An hour or so, I think.” He hadn’t noticed her dress before, but she was wearing a distinctly Dwarven-styled silver apron over a white bodice, which was tucked into a Durin-blue skirt. But the skirt was topped with raised, complex embroidery around her waist, and his fingers drifted to it of their own accord. “You were still sleeping; I didn’t want to wake you, so I left.”

She hummed thoughtfully; he traced the embroidery around to her back, enthralled by the feeling of her waist moving under his fingers as she breathed and spoke. “That doesn’t make sense, though. I woke straight out of the dream, but somehow you were in it with me even though you were awake at the time. Unless you had a different dream?”

His other hand joined the exploration as he smiled, remembering the first dream. “Waking with you tucked against me? Kissing you? Believe me, magic is the only explanation for my forgetting that.”

“Magi—” She cut herself off with a gasp as he wrapped his hands around her waist; she was slender enough that his fingers overlapped at her spine, his thumbs resting lightly against her abdomen. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why she was staring at him so oddly.

Then he remembered they weren’t actually married.

Heat flooding to his cheeks, he stood, set her on her feet, and retreated several steps all in a handful of heartbeats, stammering apologies even he didn’t understand. All the while, she just stared at him, blushing, lips parted just slightly with the same surprise that was making her eyes huge and liquid.

Slowly, his words died away, and he just looked at her. That first night, or rather morning, he’d thought she was beautiful. ‘For a Hobbit’. He wanted to smack himself. She was beautiful for a woman of any race. But it had been so long, trapped in that form, that he hadn’t even realized he didn’t see things the same way. As a dragon, that day and every day since, he’d thought she was beautiful in the same way he thought Erebor was beautiful, that a diamond was beautiful. He was attracted to her hair, to her eyes, as a matter of seeing her as treasure, as part of his hoard.

Now, looking at her as a Dwarf, he saw that she was beautiful as only a woman could be, and he had to consciously keep from reaching out to touch her again. He wanted to hold her again, to feel her skin against his, to braid his bead into her hair, to kiss her. His eyes fell to her lips, and the dream rushed back again. He could remember the taste of her skin, the feeling of her lips on his, and he forced himself not to move an inch closer.

He was attracted to far more than the color of her hair, and he could only thank Eru that he didn’t feel such things as a dragon.

She swallowed, and his eyes followed her throat involuntarily before he forced them back to hers, but he was surprised to see that she wasn’t meeting his gaze.

She was staring at his lips.

Oblivion claimed him then, and when he woke some time later, he didn’t have the slightest recollection of anything that had passed since he fell asleep. His eyes fell to Bell, and he hid a smile to see that she was sleeping peacefully, tucked under his wing. Carefully, he edged far enough away from her to stand without disturbing her, and left the cave as silently as he was able. Just before he moved out of view, he glanced back to check that she was still asleep, and felt his chest warm with something far less destructive than fire to see that she was smiling. He didn’t know why her happiness mattered so much to him, but that didn’t change the fact that it did.

He wouldn’t change it if he could.

The day passed in the same sort of way as the one before; they spoke occasionally, but only about harmless topics, such as food or the weather; she’d looked as astonished as he’d felt to learn that as a dragon, he ate half as much as he had as a Dwarf, and only in bursts, often with several days or weeks between binges. As night approached, she built the fire in the same spot as the previous night, and again sat much closer to the flames that he would have expected. He began cooking the mushrooms she’d gathered without waiting for her to ask, and she smiled gratefully at him. He returned the expression, but as they settled down, he couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “Why do you sit so near the fire?”

Her jaw clenched; despite her proximity to the blaze, she shivered as she drew her knees up to her chest. “I don’t like the cold.”

There was something more to it than that; gently, he prompted, “I’m not sure how you can still be cold, where you’re sitting, but then, I’ve never known a Hobbit before.”

She was silent for a long moment; he’d just started to think that she’d take the escape he left for her when she spoke. “There was a winter, in the Shire. Well, it was over more than just the Shire; I’ve learnt since then that it stretched nearly all the way between Ered Luin and Rivendell, and about as far north and south of the Shire, as well. But all I knew was Hobbiton.”

The mushroom in his grip was finished, but he wasn’t sure she’d want it at the moment; carefully, he set it on top of his other forepaw, since there wasn’t anywhere else he could put it that wasn’t the ground. He plucked another from the pile as she continued.

“The harvest failed and winter came too early to send for more food. Hobbits… we don’t really trust anyone else. Men, Elves, Dwarves; even inside the Shire, the Bagginses don’t really trust the Tooks, the Brandybucks don’t trust the Proudfeet, the Gamgees don’t— well, no one trusts the Sackville-Bagginses. But even if we had asked for help, I don’t think there was any food to spare for miles.

“We were snowed in. It was only me and my parents, and Bag-End, our home in the Shire, it was built to fit a huge family. Winters are usually short and gentle in the Shire, so Bag-End only had one real fireplace, in the parlour. No matter how high we built the fire, the other rooms never really got any warmer. There was one point, I’d lost track of the days by then, we ran out of firewood in the middle of a blizzard. We piled together in the cellar with all the blankets we had, and I still couldn’t get warm.

“And the entire time, through the entire winter, my parents told me again and again, ‘the Grey One will save us, just you wait and see’. I was so convinced. And then spring came without a sign of him. After months of being told he’d come and save us, a lifetime of stories of him, I’d thought that he was infallible; I think it was easier to think he’d intentionally stayed away than to admit my parents had been wrong. I’d thought he’d come and banish the winter and the cold and everything would be all right. Instead, spring came, the snows melted, and half the Shire buried the rest.”

His eyes burned as he looked at her. He couldn’t cry as a dragon, wasn’t physically capable of it, but he knew that if he’d been a Dwarf, he’d have been hard pressed to keep his composure. Fifty years of very little to do but think had been enough for him to recognize that Smaug had affected more people than only the Dwarves of Erebor, and to sympathize with the peoples of Dale and Esgaroth, the former of which suffered some of the same indignities as his people. But he could understand her anger toward Gandalf. He knew all-too-well that it was so, so much easier to lay all the blame on a single person.

It was easy, for him, at least, to forget that there was suffering in the world unrelated to Smaug or Thranduil.

Quietly, he asked, “When was this?” It was sometime in the last fifty years, he knew, but that was a large span of time.

As she answered just as quietly, he could see tears gathering in her eyes, though none spilled. “Twenty-two years ago. I was twenty-one.”

Against his will, he thought of Frerin at that age. It had been two years since Erebor fell, and slowly, Frerin and Dís had begun to understand what he’d had to remind them of so often, that they couldn’t go home, that they couldn’t have any more blankets, any more food, any more rest before they kept moving. But there had still been times when Frerin looked at him as distraughtly as though it had been mere days since they fled from Smaug. There had still been times when Frerin looked at him as though he could produce food from thin air. Still been nights when he couldn’t sleep for the sound of his brother sobbing from hunger.

And by what she’d said, she was only forty-three now. Hobbits didn’t live half so long as Dwarves, he knew, but he couldn’t help but think of Frerin again. At forty-three, Frerin had barely been an adult— in peacetime, he would’ve still been a child, but war and destitution had no patience for childhood— but the decades had taught him what the two years hadn’t. Frerin had always laughed in Erebor. He hadn’t laughed again until after Azanulbizar, until the Dwarf Dís kept telling the two of them about turned out to be a penniless jeweler, instead of the Lord a Princess ought to marry.

Of course, then he hadn’t stopped laughing for a hundred and fourteen years (and counting).

Even so, Thorin wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or impressed that she could laugh so easily. He couldn’t find any words at all. Silently, he lifted the wing nearest her; she glanced toward it at the motion, brow furrowed, then met his eyes. For a second or so, she still seemed confused; understanding passed over her features in a flash, and then she only stared at him for a long moment. The tears in her eyes threatened to spill over; he held still and tried not to actually hold his breath.

Shivering lightly, she crept over to him, leaning gingerly against his side as though she thought he’d send her away again. Well, he couldn’t have that, could he? Gently, he folded his wing down again, careful not to cover her head, but blanketing the rest of her as securely as he could. Sighing contentedly, she leaned more heavily against him; he had to consciously keep from curling around her as he had the night before, but his eyes closed involuntarily to feel her there.

The night before, she’d been painfully cold and completely drenched; his only thought had been to keep her warm, to keep her from falling ill. Now, she was still cold, but not dangerously so, and all he could focus on was the sensation of her breathing, her pulse, just that another living being was there with him and unafraid.

But not happy. Her breath hitched; he looked down, alarmed, and his panic only grew to see that her eyes were tear-filled. “I can’t stop thinking about the Fell Winter.”

The name was unfamiliar, but it wasn’t hard to connect it to her tale. He wracked his mind for a moment; if she noticed that his voice was strained, she didn’t comment on it. “Has Frerin told you about his sister, Dís?” Sniffling, she only shook her head, and he smiled; he’d have to be careful not to let on that she was his sister, too, but the pain of speaking of the sister he’d likely never see again was well worth the pleasure of remembering her in happier times. “There was one time, before she married, when the two of them wanted to get away from Ered Luin for a time, so they came with me to a town near the mountains. Truth be told, I was almost glad to be banned from it, but I’m getting ahead of myself. At the time, we were still welcome there, and the two of them decided it would be a good idea to spend a day in the taverns. By the time I found them, the two of them were raging drunk and singing incoherently, I can’t even remember the song, and the barkeep…”

As they talked, the years fell away from him until he could’ve been eighty years old again. In reality, the incident hadn’t been half as funny as he made it sound, but looking back, he could see the humor in it, and his mood lifted as he spoke. After he finished, he tried to think of another story for a moment, mind blank, and she spoke up, offering a story about a cousin’s coming of age party when one of her other cousins had had the idea to release a bagful of cats in the middle of the proceedings. He countered with a story about one of the pranks he and his siblings pulled on Balin before the mountain fell; she followed that with a much more convoluted story about a prank she’d played on the same cousin with the cats.

The two of them traded stories until the fire was low and the mushrooms were gone, and then only stopped because she was yawning too often to get through the current tale. All in all, it was the most carefree night he’d had in a hundred and sixty-four years.

The last thing he remembered was trying, vainly, to smother a guilty wish that every night could be as happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, so not into bestiality. So, so, so, VERY much not into that, so expect very clear separations of his Dwarven and draconic feelings for her. And yes, they're dream-sharing. Bit of a cliché, I know, but I couldn't resist. Besides, this way I can develop their friendship and romance at the same time. (^u^)  
> Link for this week is basically what Glóin looks like, except iron instead of wooden and with more detail on the flat sides. (https://www.iels.org/assets/19/A17277_l.1.jpg_resized_380_.jpeg)  
> Á bientôt!  
> (Although there might be a bonus update this week; I think I forgot a birthday. o_o)


	14. May 3, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something sweet, and almost kind…

The wind blew Bell’s hair back away from her face, and she smiled out at the horizon. Looking down at the farms at the base of the mountain, she raised a hand to tuck a flyaway strand of hair back, but paused. Delicately, she traced the braids back from her temple to the bun at the back of her head, then moved her fingers back up to the beads starting just above her ear. There were seven of them in a row, all of them covered in tiny, elaborate engravings she couldn’t begin to understand. Regardless, her fingers stroked over them, memorizing the details until she almost could see them.

A huge, warm hand covered hers, and she didn’t need to look to know it was Thorin. Her heart stuttered, then sped to a race, heat spreading out from her cheeks. Gently, he led her fingers to the beads again, one at a time. “My name bead, a marriage bead, your name bead, a bead marking you as a Master Healer, another marking you Master Farmer, the bead of Durin’s line, the bead of the Queen Under the Mountain.” The warmth at her back was joined by the warmth in his tone, and hearing the smile in his voice made her feel warm all over. “The order means that you consider being a healer more important than being Queen, and being a farmer over being a Durin.”

She might have asked why that was so surprising, might have made a crack about Durin’s Line, might have teased him like she wanted to, but her mouth was dry, and all she could focus on was his skin on hers. The disconnect between the dream’s reality and the one they’d just come from was disorienting, to say the least, and she couldn’t tell if she wanted him to let go of her or if she wanted to lace her fingers in his, pull him down, close enough to kiss.

For a heartbeat, they stood like that, and her pulse roared in her ears.

Then, as in the last dream, he seemed to realize what he was doing, and he let go of her hand, stepping back so quickly that she still felt the ghost of his warmth for a few instants after he moved.

(As it turned out, she’d wanted to pull him closer, but the moment was past.)

As before, he stammered apologies for several seconds, and she used his distraction along with the cold wind to regain some composure. He fell silent, and she steeled herself for the sight of him looking at her as he had before, like she was more precious than gold, more beautiful than Erebor, like he wanted to…

Well, she wasn’t really sure what he wanted from her. But… part of her couldn’t help but think that she’d enjoy finding out.

But at the same time, it made her nervous. He didn’t look at her the way the Master and Alfrid always had, but the glances she’d gotten in the Shire had been a breath of wind, compared to Thorin’s hurricane. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was new, and she didn’t know what to do.

So, steeled and ready, she turned and saw—

…Thorin on his knees, several feet away, head bowed deeply enough that she could barely see the flush on his cheeks. Thrown by the unexpected sight, all she could do was blink at him for a few moments. Baffled, she cocked her head. “Um, what are you doing?”

His hands tightened on his knees, but he didn’t look up. “I have wronged you severely, and intruded against your wishes. I have treated you without honor, and so my honor and beard are yours to take.”

Slowly, her brows drew together in incredulous bewilderment. “Why would I want your beard?” She very nearly added ‘and what would I do with it’, but managed to hold her tongue.

His head snapped up, and for some reason he looked at her as though she were the one making no sense. “You have every right to demand it!”

“‘Right’?” She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

For another moment or two, he frowned at her, before his expression cleared and he lowered his head part of the way again. “By Dwarven law, any Dwarf who wrongs another as I have wronged you must surrender his beard to the victim’s discretion.”

She huffed lightly and leaned back against the railing behind her, crossing her arms; as she did, she realized that she was wearing a rich, sumptuous gown, far finer than any she’d ever worn before. It was a gorgeous dark blue that she immediately fell in love with; the hem was far longer than Hobbit dresses, nearly to her ankles, but the skirt was full enough that she thought she’d still have a full range of motion; there were two layers to the sleeves, one that hugged her arms snuggly down to her wrists, one that split at her elbow and cascaded down to her knees; the square neckline was lower than she’d worn since leaving the Shire, but still not quite as low as that. She was also quite a bit better fed than she had been since leaving the Shire. With a start, she realized Thorin was still kneeling, and she forced herself to focus on his question. “Which still doesn’t answer the question of why on Arda I would want your beard. And what do you mean ‘wronged’, anyway?”

Head rising again, he scowled at her, but the same impulse that had been nudging her toward teasing him as though she did it every day now told her not to take his expression seriously. “A Dwarf’s beard is his honor!” She still didn’t understand, and his scowl darkened. “I’ve been behaving as though— as though we were married, treating you like—” He bit back his next words almost audibly, and did growl. “None of which was with your permission or consent, which gives you the right to shear me! To show that I—” With a frustrated growl, he broke off, but before she could say a word, the railing literally gave way beneath her, and she had to catch herself as she fell.

She landed on stone, but she hadn’t fallen off the mountain; she fell only to the same level as her feet, and stood easily. But the light was different, and she looked around at the scene. Rather than a balcony on the side of the mountain, she now stood in a huge hall, one she hadn’t seen before. It was well lit, with torches placed at regular intervals on the walls, but the room was crowded with Dwarves, all of them taller than her, and so she couldn’t see much of anything; everything more than a dozen paces away was also strangely blurry, like watercolors that had begun to bleed together. All the Dwarves seemed to be focused on something behind her, most of them whispering to a neighbor about something or other, and she turned.

In the distance, there was a Dwarf in the middle of an open space, kneeling as Thorin had been, but she was a bit distracted by the Dwarf directly in front of her. Or, rather, the Dwarfling in front of her. She stared for a moment, taking in the soil-black hair, the blue-jay eyes, the complete lack of a beard, and, mostly, the completely precious chubby little cheeks.

Then she burst out laughing.

Thorin scowled fiercely at her, but on a little boy even younger than Tilda, the expression was too comical for words, and she doubled over, holding her sides. He said something angry-sounding, but his voice was at least three octaves higher than before, and she broke into inelegant, snorting cackles as she sat with a thump. Through her laughter, she heard him swearing in a lisping, shocked soprano, then, slowly, begin laughing himself.

The two of them laughed for several minutes, one of them beginning to wind down only to be set off again (Bell by Thorin’s giggles, Thorin by Bell’s guffaws), until they finally wound down together. Bell was lying fully on the ground by then, Thorin beside her with the top of his head against her side and his arm flopped over her shoulder.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so well. She’d laughed with the Bardlings, of course; she loved children, and it was impossible for her not to laugh when she heard one laughing, but there was a difference between laughter and full-blown bellows. She wasn’t sure she’d laughed like that since her mother’s death. Possibly since the Fell Winter.

Sighing happily, she stared up at the ceiling, and the crowd surrounding them. “Where are we?”

He chuckled and rose, taking a couple steps toward the center of the room before he turned to face her again. “The Judgement Hall. It’s where my grandfather always passed judgment on criminals. I was trying to think of a way to explain to you, and…”

He trailed off, frowning; Bell sat up and finished his sentence. “And then we were here.” Brow furrowed, she scanned the room, noticing just how detailed their immediate surroundings were. “Is this… were you remembering a specific day? When you were trying to find an explanation?”

Still frowning, he met her eyes. “…Yes, I think so. The first trial like this I saw, when I was fourteen.”

She hummed. “So, then—” As his word sank in, she froze. “Wait, you’re fourteen?!” Gaping at him, she tallied his features, but no matter how she looked at it, he didn’t look nearly that old. A fourteen year old Hobbit would be nearly as mature as Tilda, but looking at him, she wouldn’t have guessed he was older than eleven. Of course, if he were a Man, she’d guess he was seven, or somewhere around there. He looked about like the seven-year-olds she’d known in Lake-town, albeit much stockier, being a Dwarf, and he was clearly far better fed.

But he just scowled. “No, I was fourteen! I’m a hundred and thirty-six now—” He paused uncertainly, and in the instant before he continued, he sort of rippled, and then he was an adult again; he didn’t seem to notice, though. “Or I was. Then the curse… and in these dreams…” He rippled again, and when his form stilled, his beard was longer, his traveling outfit turned to clothes fit for a king. “…in these, I’m even older than that.”

The lost look in his eyes was heartrending; acting on instinct, she pushed to her feet and stepped close enough to skate her fingers up his cheek and into his hair. She braced herself against his chest with her other hand, and so felt his sharp inhale as much as she heard it. His eyes were wide as they met hers, and she could see firelight reflected in the blue. Shock melted into grateful fondness that was almost as young as he’d been a few minutes earlier.

For a heartbeat, she smiled, and thought to herself, _‘there’s the sweet man I fell in love with’_.

Then she realized.

Face on fire, she snatched her hands away from him, stumbling back far enough to catch her breath. Now he was the one staring at her, disbelieving, but there was still that soft edge to his expression that made her want to hold him—

She spun, desperately reaching for something she could use to change the subject. “So, t— You thought of th— this day, and then we were here, and…” She stilled, heart slowing as the train of thought successfully distracted her. “And you…” 

Mind whirling, she thought furiously; Thorin started to say something, but stopped when she shushed him. A few moments later, she focused, and the room of Dwarves dissolved into a sunlit road.

They were surrounded by green, birdsong filled the fresh, clean air, and it was a bright, warm, cloudless day. And seeing it again, a profound melancholy filled Bell.

Thorin moved beside her and said something in Khuzdûl that almost sounded awed. “What…”

She sighed shakily and turned to look at her parents behind her. “The day we left the Shire.”

A broken smile twitched at her lips, but didn’t break through. Her father looked so young, no silver in his hair, half as many lines on his face, but her mother held her attention. She’d forgotten how curly her mother’s hair was. The color, she’d remembered; all of her Took relatives had shared the ink-black shade, as well as a few Brandybucks. But she’d forgotten her curls. Her father’s hair had always been more wavy than curly, and Rúna and her daughters all had wavy hair, spilling down their backs like the water they lived on.

Belladonna’s hair exploded out, it always had. The only times it was anything resembling tame was when she’d just washed it and the half-drowned curls were still dripping. Bell couldn’t remember a time when her mother’s hair had been long enough to brush her shoulders, and most of the time, Belladonna had kept it even shorter than that. Bell hadn’t, either, until they’d settled into Lake-town. She was wearing a modest traveling outfit, more subdued than her usual tastes, but sensible for the journey they were about to take, and effectively the same as what Bell wore.

And she’d forgotten her mother’s eyes. Not the color, never the color, but the shape was a little different, and she had more crow’s feet than Bell had remembered. She had more lines in general than Bell remembered. In her memory, Belladonna was always laughing, but the woman before her was careworn and solemn, and her face proved that it wasn’t too unusual an expression.

“They look happy.” Frowning, she turned to Thorin, but the tightness in her chest loosened when she saw that he was looking the other way, at the Hobbits still in the Shire.

She didn’t move closer, but she watched them, too. “They are.”

They were silent for a few beats. “Why did your family leave?”

His voice was quiet, and the same instinct that told her not to take his anger at face value now told her that he was giving her a choice of whether or not to answer. She sighed just as quietly. “I told you about the Fell Winter.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, expression somewhat alarmed. “That just happened?”

Shaking her head, she moved to stand beside him. “No, it happened twelve years before this. At this point, most of the Shire had recovered well enough, but…” Her throat closed up, cutting off the rest of her words, and she blinked rapidly.

An unexpected touch on her hand startled her, but she let Thorin take it the second time, and leaned heavily against his arm; he shifted his weight as though he wanted to do something, but only cleared his throat. Even just that was nearly enough to tip her over the edge into outright crying—

Her breath caught in her throat as she frowned; she wasn’t a weepy person, never had been, except—

…except…

A moment’s concentration was all she needed before she and Thorin were standing in a dark forest; he stumbled, probably because she was a good ten pounds lighter than she’d been a moment earlier. She closed her eyes against the sight of Mirkwood and pushed through the hunger pulsing through her, opening them again once she smelled the fish and brine of Lake-town.

They were standing in Bard’s house, Bain and Sigrid playing with a toddling Tilda on the other side of the room, and she let go of Thorin’s hand to pace, bleeding off some of the frustration simmering under her skin. “So whatever memory we focus on, whatever age we choose, our state of mind is affected.” So she was miserable in the Shire, starving in Mirkwood, angry in Lake-town. “It doesn’t seem to affect our memories; I still remember Erebor. In the last dream—” She froze for an instant, remembering how his hands had felt on her waist, but shook it off. “—you were talking about magic. That does seem like the only explanation.” Growling, she ran a hand through her now-loose hair. “What I wouldn’t give to be able to ask Gandalf about all this.”

“What…” Thorin sounded shell-shocked; Bell turned to look at him where he stood, staring at her. He hadn’t budged since she let go of his hand, evidently.m

“What is it?” Her first impulse was to reach toward him, but her hair had other ideas, and it took her a few moments to untangle her fingers from her curls.

His eyes followed her hand for a moment as she worked it free, but his expression didn’t change from the unreadably-complex mix it had been since she turned around before his eyes returned to hers. “That was Mirkwood.”

The certainty in his tone called up answering steel in her spine, and she looked away from him, jaw clenched. “You’ve been, then.”

For a moment, he was silent; when he spoke again, his voice had gentled considerably. “With more supplies than you, apparently.”

Her eyes burned, and she closed them before her emotions could get the better of her. Once she could speak calmly, she opened them again, but still didn't look at him. “Which is a story for another dream. Can you take us back to the trial?”

He was silent for a long moment, but she still didn’t look at him; after an eternity, the scene returned to the crowded hall. Her appearance, though, stayed as it had been in Lake-town. She scowled at her ratty clothes, but her anger from Lake-town was gone; the thought occurred to her that she could return to her dream-form, but instead she closed her eyes and focused, and when she looked again, she was a child, the same age as Thorin. Or thereabouts, anyway. If he was truly fourteen, then Hobbits and Dwarves aged at very different rates.

But regardless, she was eleven again, and stepped up beside Thorin where he stood at the edge of the open space; she had to glance up to see his face, tall as he was. He glanced at her, then looked back, eyes wide. She just smiled, and after a moment, he returned it. The sight was odd; he looked even younger than before, but she felt no urge to laugh at him, only a sort of solidarity, the fellow feeling of two children in a crowd of adults.

She’d thought that her appearance didn’t change the way she thought as much as her surroundings, but given how her thinking was shifting along with her age, maybe that hadn’t been quite accurate. But she had a feeling that she’d have plenty of chances to test it.

They turned to the Dwarf in the space again; she realized he was sobbing just as a grown Dwarf stepped into the space from Thorin’s other side. She examined him curiously; even surrounded by signs of wealth and plenty as all the Dwarves present wore, he was extravagantly dressed. There was gold and silver embroidered into every article of clothing; his beard cascaded down to his waist, long, glittering beads gave his beard the illusion of being another layer of armor, weighing down his braids so they swung as he moved; he wore heavy-looking rings on most of his fingers, and a golden belt peeked out from inside his robe.

But of course, her eyes were drawn to his crown most of all. It was as ornate as his clothing, and as solid as his rings, but she had to frown. The crown was striking, in a Dwarven sort of way, but it visibly pressed down on his forehead, pushing what might have been a solemn frown into a dark glower. Every detail was clear, even as he moved into the blurred distance; a theory about that began to take form in the back of her mind, but she focused on the scene before her.

All of it took place in the same language as Bifur spoke, and every so often, Thorin summarized what had just been said. “The King’s listing his crimes. Disrespect of a Dam; unlawful advances on said Dam; a few smaller offenses.” A full-bearded Dwarf in a dress stepped forward and spoke. “She’s listing the occasions when she told him to stop and he ignored her wishes.” Several Dwarves stepped up to flank the female Dwarf. “They’re testifying that he publicly spoke of her in clear contempt of our ways.” The Dwarf on trial burst out with something desperate. “He’s claiming that he’d spent his childhood in cities of Men, that he’d been ignorant of Dwarven law.” The King spoke sharply, and the accused Dwarf cowered. “He said that ignorance of the law does not excuse actions any adult should have known were shameful, and that his parents’ failure to properly teach him our ways is only the reason that he was ignorant when he came here, not the reason why after twenty years of living in these Halls, he still hasn’t learned.”

She shook her head, curls bouncing. “Wait, ‘our ways’? What does that mean?”

He kept one eye on the trial as he spoke, but he turned partially toward her. “When Dwarves were made, Mahal made seven men and six women. Durin was made alone, but the other six fathers had their wives from the beginning. Mahal made us to be craftsmen, stonemasons, miners, jewelers, to create everything we need from the world around us, but he created us equal with our wives, and left Durin alone to teach him to treasure his wife’s companionship when he found her some years later. Women are rare in our race, and all the more valuable for that. To treat a woman as an inferior, or worse, as a possession, is one of the worst crimes a Dwarf can commit. Any unwanted contact can be punished if the woman so chooses; all the guilty Dwarf did was grab her arm, but even that’s punishable with exile, since she clearly had reason to distrust him even without anything further.”

She could only stare at him, mouth hanging open. Being younger than she had been in Lake-town made her memories of it seem as remote as those of Mirkwood, but even so, her eyes watered. Ten years of Alfrid pawing at her and the Master leering, of hiding bruises so her father wouldn’t worry, of finding every excuse she could to refuse anyone’s attentions, not just theirs, of living with the weight of it on her shoulders.

And if they’d found a city of Dwarves instead of a town of Men, none of it would’ve happened.

“Bell?” She opened her eyes, not sure when she’d closed them, to see Thorin staring at her wide-eyed; belatedly, she realized her cheeks were wet.

Sniffling, she wiped at them with the back of her hand. As she did, the guilty Dwarf shouted again; she glanced over to see him struggling against the four Dwarves who were now holding him down while a fifth shaved off his beard. He wasn’t gentle about it; when he drew back, the bare-faced Dwarf was bleeding from half a dozen spots on his cheeks, at least, and all the fight left him. The female Dwarf glared at the prone Dwarf as she held her hand out; the one who’d shaved her attacker placed a handful of the shorn hair in her hand, and she smiled grimly. With one last glare, she turned on her heel and walked away; the crowd followed suit, until the shorn Dwarf was left alone, still sobbing.

Without his beard, he looked almost naked; the Dwarf who’d shorn him came forward again and shaved his head, and once that was done, three more Dwarves came up with some sort of needle. Bell had to look away as she blanched; Thorin swore, and the world shivered. Once it settled again, he nudged her arm and gestured for her to look again; the three moved away from the guilty party, to reveal a dark red rune in the center of the Dwarf’s forehead, the skin around it red and irritated.

“There’s more than one reason why someone might be shorn.” Thorin glanced at the Dwarf, but his eyes returned to her quickly, still clearly worried. “The rune is so that he can’t lie and say that it was because he stole from the wrong person, or killed someone, or something.”

The Dwarves dragged the criminal out of the room, but she could hear his sobs for some seconds longer. She looked up at Thorin. “And that’s what you expect me to do to you?”

He scowled, but it was the same frustrated expression from before, albeit on a much younger face. “I behaved no better than he! I acted without thinking— without any regard for you!”

She snorted. “You’re not the only one.” He blinked at her, brow furrowed, and she ducked her head, face warm. “Do you think I was thinking at all when I touched you earlier? Or in the last dream?”

She glanced up just long enough to see that he was bright red and avoiding her eyes; deliberately, she took his hand, and his eyes jumped to hers as his blush darkened. “Whatever this is, whether it’s part of the curse or something else, I think it’s making us do things like that.”

He frowned. “You think it’s forcing us to?”

Wincing, she shook her head. “Not that. But— haven’t you noticed that at the start of every one of these dreams so far, we’re married?” His hand stiffened in hers; instinctively, she lifted her other hand to it so his was cradled between hers, and she stroked her thumbs soothingly along his skin; the size difference between them was the same as it was when they were adults, but he had no callouses, and his skin was as soft as hers. It felt odd, but not necessarily bad. “And been so long enough that we’re comfortable with each other— that I’m comfortable in Dwarven clothes, with braids and beads in my hair!”

“And I’m used to being a Dwarf again, used to being a King.” He was thinking aloud, she could tell, but that didn’t stop her from pulling on his hand to get his attention again.

“And neither of us hesitates to act as though we’re married.” She put a slight emphasis on ‘neither’, and she saw in his expression that he caught it.

But he shook his head. “But I still acted—”

“Exactly like I was acting.”

He shook his head again. “But I should’ve known better! I was acting like we’re married, lik—”

“—Because we are married in these dreams!” He still looked troubled, and she huffed; after a moment, she thought of another angle. “In the other trials like this one you saw, were any of them cases where the woman had responded in kind? Where she was as complicit as he was?”

Flushing, his brow furrowed. “No, those would be misconduct cases, not assault.”

Raising her brows at him, she clarified, “So it’s another matter entirely if the man’s advances weren’t unwelcome?” He nodded; she grinned. “Then so is this!”

He gaped at her, then turned red. “You— But—”

Catching herself, she pulled her hands behind her back, blushing. “Well, I never pushed you away, did I?”

“…No, you didn’t.” She saw his amazed expression, but woke before either of them could do anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a dense chapter, I know, but there was a lot of stuff I needed to establish for later, so... *shrugs* Also, the 'watercolors bleeding together' thing is my way of saying that this Thorin is definitely nearsighted. I have terrible vision without my glasses (as in, can't read my laptop screen without my glasses), but I know that people who don't need glasses don't always have an accurate idea of what it's like. Not sure this is the best possible way to phrase it, but it's the best way I could think of. (^u^)  
> Link for this update is (https://thegraphicsfairy.com/wp-content/uploads/blogger/-RLagJoSE_mA/T050m5RsHtI/AAAAAAAAQt4/V4XlRwEIzbM/s400/FeatherDuster-Vintage-Image-GraphicsFairy.jpg), that's basically what Nori looks like, except that she has needle-thin arms and hands, and her torso and head are just a proportionally-small version of her normal appearance.   
> Also, I did forget a birthday (Sorry, Munchkin!), not that she knows, since she's a toddler, but anyway, there'll be a bonus update tomorrow. Be forewarned, though, this fic so far is like a hard T for violence and a soft T for implied stuff. Tomorrow's update is a hard T for suggestive stuff. Or a soft M. I don't know. I know I've read T fics with more adult themes and I've read M fics with less, so personally I'd rate it a hard T, but anyone with issues with that: you have been warned. Also, if there's a lot of people who'd rather not read that, I can split the chapter in half since the implied stuff is all in the first half of the chapter. Honestly, it's mostly just the first couple paragraphs, and nothing is explicitly said, just implied. Eh, up to you.  
> À demain!


	15. May 4-7, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’ll wait and see/ a few days more/ there may be something there that wasn’t there before.

Thorin settled down to sleep, wincing as his leg gave a twinge. Bell’d been right to warn him against trying to climb, in hindsight. She’d scolded him for the better part of an hour, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was lucky he hadn’t set his recovery back a full month. But even so, she was asleep under his wing as was becoming usual. His eyes burned with tears that wouldn’t fall, and he fell asleep relishing the simple luxury of being touched without fear.

Thorin stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom, sweat cooling on his bare skin, muscles satisfyingly sore.

“Have you ever noticed that these dreams always seem to wake us up at the most irritating times?” He lifted his head to see his wife sitting on the edge of the bed as she pulled on her underthings.

Blood drifting down as he smirked, he moved behind her. “They begin at inconvenient times, too.”

She gave a growling sigh, rolling her head on her shoulders; the motion happened to move enough of her hair off one shoulder to bare her neck, and the skin there drew Thorin like a moth to a flame. “This time, extremely. All the aching, none of th—”

She broke off with a gasp as he laid a hungry kiss to the junction of her neck and shoulder, pulling her flush against him with a hand on her bare abdomen; the taste and feel of her skin only heated his blood more. As he trailed his lips and teeth up to her jaw, her head fell back against his shoulder and she found his hand beside her, lacing her fingers through his; the sounds that left her didn’t help him hold back in the slightest, but every time he tried to draw away, she squeezed his fingers with a pleading whimper that he was helpless against.

Some instinct pulled his lips to her ear rather than her lips, and when he took her earlobe gently between his teeth, her fingers tightened on his and she arched back with a moan.

And then he woke up, oblivious to any dreams he had and feeling very well rested.

 

“Like I said, the most irritating times possible.” Remembering the previous dream, Bell flushed red, but didn’t take her hand off of Thorin’s where their thrones shared an armrest.

He turned his hand over so he could weave his fingers through hers, and gave her a sympathetic grimace when she met his eyes; part of her was a bit satisfied to see that he was as flustered as she was. “I swear, they’re designed to tease us.”

As her thoughts turned to that morning, she shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe it’s for the best.” He furrowed his brow questioningly; her blush deepened, but she just raised her brows at him. “I don’t know about you, but I was still a bit… overheated. When I woke up.” It had faded in a matter of seconds, but it had still been disagreeable.

His brows quirked up, his eyes falling to her lips, but he blanched a moment later. “Oh, if I remembered the dreams—” He broke off with a disgusted shudder, which she joined; as a Dwarf, and especially as her husband, the thought gave her all sorts of delicious ideas, but as a Dragon, it was just nauseating.

After that, though, she looked around curiously. They were in a hall, larger than the one the trial had been in, and with sunlight streaming in from windows on one side of the room; it was filled with Dwarves, both men and women, and even a handful of Elves and Men. “What is this?”

Thorin visibly shook off the lingering thoughts and looked around as well. “It’s a receiving hall, but not one I recognize.” He was silent for a moment as he squinted at the far ends of the room, then his eyes widened and he burst out, “This is one of the areas Smaug destroyed! This— We cleared the debris, but we couldn’t repair any of it. It would take dozens of craftsman a decade to do this.”

She looked around again as he spoke, paying more attention to the architecture; the windows still drew her eye more than any other feature, and she tilted her head toward Thorin. “I didn’t notice any windows in the mountain.”

Meeting her eyes for a moment, he gave her a confused frown. “There aren’t.” Lifting their hands, he kissed her knuckles and stood, his grip loosening; she followed before he could let go, and stayed beside him as he moved to the edge of the dais, looking up at the windows. “These must have been put here during the reconstruction. But w…” He stilled, then glanced at her sidelong with an odd half-smile. “What are Hobbit opinions on sunlight?”

“Ah…” The answer hardly took any effort to find, but it wasn’t for non-Hobbits. But he wouldn’t remember when he woke, anyway. And it wasn’t as though she had to tell him all of it, just the relevant details. A bit shyly, she moved closer to him to press the side of her face against his sleeve, half hiding behind him as she spoke, though she knew no one else could see or hear them. “According to our traditions, we were made from sunlight, among other things. After the Fell Winter, even those of us who’d had enough food and warmth to survive were horribly weak after months without daylight.”

He blinked at her for a long moment, expression soft under the astonishment, then he cupped her jaw with his free hand, kissed her on the temple, and looked back up at the windows as his hand dropped to her waist. “That explains the windows, then.”

She frowned. “What?”

Half-smile returning, he glanced at her again. “You haven’t noticed?”

When she only frowned, she turned to face her fully, pulling his hand out of hers in the process; she cut off her automatic protest as his hands went to her hair. Delicately, he took hold of something, and she felt weight she hadn’t noticed before lift off her head just before he lowered a [crown](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/09/0c/3e/090c3efe3d72948ab999a6ab11d8a122.jpg) into view. The majority of it consisted of an array of raw, softly-glowing crystals, but there were silver threads spiraling around the bases of the gems and holding them in place.

Distantly, she heard him say something about it being plain, but he trailed off after a sentence or so. “You like this?”

Hands rising of their own volition, she nodded, her words abandoning her entirely; the crown was lighter than she expected, and she realized there was a layer of padded velvet the same color as her hair running along the bottom edge. That was secondary, though, to the crown itself. The crystals shone a little brighter where her hands touched them, and hummed faintly under her fingers, like distant wind chimes. “I didn’t… I never knew a crown could be so beautiful. I thought they were all blocky, heavy things like the ones in paintings.” Wiping her cheeks, she glanced up at him. “Oh.”

When he only looked confused, she motioned up, giggling softly. While he took off his [crown](http://www.organicarmor.com//wp-content/uploads/2015/04/3a16aaacbdd41be09eafaeaa60bbb5f6.jpg), gold with stylized (blocky) ravens, she reached up to rub at an itch on the side of her neck, but was surprised when what felt like little [rocks](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c9/3a/c4/c93ac4e4b3c777b512c6715ad55499a9.jpg) hit her hand, hanging down from around her [ear](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/27/ca/32/27ca32cf050e05c621d0520591520b52.jpg). Carefully, she pulled one forward, its chain just long enough for her to see it in her peripheral vision, and she saw a crystal of the same sort that made up her crown, the size of her little fingernail, and glowing just as her crown did. A strange feeling on her foot niggled at her, and she lifted her foot up past the full skirts of the dress she’d worn two dreams before to see an [anklet](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ca/38/0d/ca380dbbf1a8409b82cffcc3c0a29bda.jpg), deep blue gems highlighting silvery chains, resting on top of the well-groomed hair on her foot and tethered to her second toe; it was far heavier than her other pieces of regalia, but the weight was negligible with how strong her feet and legs were. Half-knowing what to expect, she felt the base of her neck and wasn’t especially surprised to find a thin necklace laying at her collarbone, four stones hanging off of it, though she couldn’t see them; as she did that, she realized she was wearing a bracelet, as well, this one with silver chains so thin she could barely see them, let alone feel them, leading from the chain around her wrist to circle around each of her fingers.

At that, she had to exclaim, “For Eru’s sake, I’m wearing more jewelry than you!” He half-scoffed lightly, and pointedly toyed with the half-dozen heavy necklaces he wore, also drawing attention to the number of rings on his fingers. Bobbing her head in good-natured defeat, she stilled as the stones swung against her neck.

Replacing his crown on his head, Thorin cupped his hand under the ear she hadn’t checked, gently drawing the stones forward without pulling on them. Frowning, he ran his thumb over them. “These, and the crown, they glow like the Arkenstone.”

“The what?”

“The Arkenstone. It— It’s— Well, the stone I stopped you from touching, in the treasury.” His voice trailed off guiltily at the end of the sentence; she squeezed his arm reassuringly as she remembered.

“It called me.” He blinked at her; she met his eyes as the memory returned. “That night, and the night before, I couldn’t sleep. It felt— I don’t know, but it was like I could hear something in the distance, and I followed it to the treasury. By the time I reached the Arkenstone, I hardly knew what I was doing. I didn’t snap out of it until a few seconds after you caught me, but then I couldn’t remember why I was there just— just minutes later.”

His expression tightened into a dark scowl. “That stone drove my grandfather to insanity; I should’ve known it was doing the same to y—”

“No.” She shook her head vehemently, not caring that the motion made her ear-baubles swing against her neck. “No, that’s not what it was doing.”

A frustrated growl burst from him; he spread his arms as he shouted, “What other explanation is there?!”

Impulsively, she dropped her crown, grabbed his forearms, and pulled his arms down again; matching his tone, though not his volume, she growled back, “I don’t know, but I know that there has to be one!”

He stepped closer, nearly enough for their chests to touch; her breath stuttered. “How?”

Heat pooling in her gut, she held his gaze by sheer force of will. “You think I know any more than you do?”

For an eternity, he just stared at her, eyes dark, breath as heavy as hers, the heat of himseeping into her even without either of them touching. Then, in a single moment, she sank her hands into his hair and yanked him down, his hands seized hold of her hips and pulled her flush against him, and their mouths collided in a hot-blooded battle neither cared if they won or lost.

Bell woke feeling unpleasantly warm, and gladly sunk into the chilly water of the spring.

 

Thorin set his crown beside him on the bench with a resigned sigh. “These are definitely designed to torture us.”

Brushing the dirt off her skirts as she stood, Bell snorted. “Last time, you called it ‘teasing’, not ‘torture’.”

A bright, floral scarf covered her ears and held her hair off her face, but he could still just make out the shapes of her beads under the fabric; delicate miniature brass ivy leaves poked past the edge of the scarf. She looked over the garden with a satisfied smile; he looked around too, but all he could tell was that there were flowers and bushes, and bushes of flowers. Lots of colors and shapes, pretty enough, but he’d rather have a forge any day. Even so, he felt more content as she sat beside him than he had since Erebor fell; she leaned against his side as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and his arm curled around her waist just as easily.

“Is there a difference?” She snorted again, smiling, and laid her head against his shoulder. A few minutes passed in comfortable, but weighted silence before he murmured, “I’m afraid of what the Arkenstone could do to you. That stone is the reason I only ever knew my grandfather as a greedy madman, not as the wise leader my father and others remember from before its discovery.”

Sighing, she toyed idly with the edge of his sleeve. “But was it the stone itself or something else? And could it affect Hobbits differently from Dwarves? Women differently from men? Young from old? There’s too much unknown.”

Fear gnawing at his gut, he shook his head. “Which is exactly why I’m worried.”

“Do you trust me?”

Surprised, he met her eyes automatically. “What?”

She held his eyes intently. “Thorin, do you trust me?”

Even in the waking world, where the oddness of these dreams wasn’t influencing him, he could only give one answer. “Yes.”

Her expression eased marginally. “Then trust me when I say that the Arkenstone called me that night, but I haven’t felt anything from it since. We might not be in the mountain, but if it were doing something to me, it would be doing it no matter what the distance, wouldn’t it?”

Despite his misgivings, he couldn’t disagree. “But what if it’s still in the beginning stages? I don’t remember a time when my grandfather wasn’t completely twisted by gold-madness, but Balin remembers it as a slow progression, too slow for anyone to notice until it was too late.”

She hummed lowly. “When you say slow, do you mean years or decades?”

He furrowed his brow, but still answered. “Decades. Likely close to a century.”

She smiled sunnily. “Then it doesn’t matter. Hobbits don’t live half so long as Dwarves, so either it’ll progress quickly enough for you to notice and get Gandalf or someone to do something, or it’ll go so slowly that I’ll be old and grey long before it affects me dangerously. Of course, that’s still assuming that it’ll affect me at all, whic—“

“Don’t say that!” She blinked at him, but he just felt cold; the image of her fading away while he was still young hung in his mind’s eye and knotted his gut into a pit of dread.

Gently, she cupped his cheek. “Thorin, I’m forty-three. My grandfather lived to be a hundred and thirty, so perhaps I’ll follow his example, but I probably don’t have more than fifty years in me.”

Weakly, he shook his head, covering her hand with his when she started to draw it away. In a voice that was as quiet as it was broken, he pleaded, “Don’t say that.”

Light gathered in her eyes and she pulled away from him; a wordless, needy protest leaving him, he caught her around the waist, but before he even reached her, she moved closer to him again. She sat on his lap, her new position putting her face nearly level with his, and placed her free hand so that she was cradling his face. With a shuddering breath, he leaned down to press his forehead to hers; his hands, he left resting at her waist. As when they were awake at night, simply touching her was enough to calm him, and he felt his heart slow.

His eyes fell closed, and for several seconds, they simply sat like that, breathing together.

Then he felt her lips against his.

He opened his mouth instinctively, and as she deepened the kiss, he let himself fall further into the dream. The kiss was slow, languid, and, to his faint surprise, even more soothing than her touch. When they’d kissed in the previous dream, it had been with the sort of passion that had lit a fire in him, so that he’d burned to taste every inch of her, to draw out every noise she could make, every moan and gasp, until neither of them could even think of anything but the other.

This kiss was not like the previous dream. If anything, it was like the first dream they’d shared, when they’d woken up together and he’d been utterly at peace, utterly content with her in his arms. This was the sort of kiss that came from a hundred thousand kisses like it, from knowing each other as well or better than they knew themselves, from the bone-deep certainty that they would have time for everything else. This kiss felt like it did to be sitting in his wife’s garden, to have her lying against him, to have her sitting at his side, as his queen. This kiss felt like coming home.

They spent long minutes like that, until he was on the verge of falling asleep where he was; she pulled softly away and again rested her forehead against his. Slowly, he eased his eyes open just enough to see her, just enough to see that she was as relaxed as he was; the sight settled a concern he hadn’t even been aware of, and he let his eyes fall shut again. There was nothing he could think of to say that she wouldn’t have already thought of; she didn’t say anything, either, and so they simply sat in silence until the garden chilled enough for her to shiver.

Opening his eyes, he realized the light was too rosy to be anything but sunset; she laughed lightly. “Well, I suppose that answers whether or not we can just wait out the dreams.”

He laughed, too, and she fell into him as she lost her balance, bracing herself on his chest. His eyes fell to her lips—

Thorin reared his head back as something splashed on his face. Wrenching his eyes open, he viewed the torrents of rain falling outside the cave thoughtfully, then curled around Bell and closed his eyes again. He could sleep a little longer.

 

Bell watched the huge, black birds circle overheard idly; most of her attention was on Thorin where he stood on the opposite side of the courtyard. Not that she let on that she was watching him.

In the last dream, what they’d shared had been…

Words failed her. She’d imagined married life a few times when she was younger: as a fauntling, she’d thought all it meant was cooking for each other; as she neared her tweens, she’d thought pecks on the lips were the most it entailed; after the Fell Winter, she’d hardly thought of it until the journey, until she’d seen her mother and father together in a situation so unlike anything any of them had known that they couldn’t help but behave differently from usual, and then she’d thought of marriage as standing side-by-side through thick and thin; in Lake-town, as much as the Men’s attentions revolted her, she hadn’t been able to help wondering what it would be like, to be so drawn to someone. Men were also less circumspect than Hobbits, and she’d had her eyes unwillingly opened more than once as she passed an alleyway or a door that had been left open for one reason or another. So she’d known that a certain amount of… passion, for lack of a better word, was part of it.

But despite all her imaginings, she’d never expected how naked she’d felt, kissing Thorin. Not in that she felt exposed or wanton. Kissing him, she’d felt… vulnerable. As though every wall and every layer had been stripped away until her soul itself was bared for him to see. And she hadn’t been afraid in the slightest. Now, now she was a little shy to approach him, but at the time, she’d had a feeling she couldn’t explain or name, an unwavering faith that she could show him everything she was, everything that had made her who she was, everything she was proud of, everything she was ashamed of, everything she hated about herself, everything she loved, everything she felt for him, and he would only love her more.

It had felt utterly natural for her to think to herself that he loved her at the time, almost as much as it had to think about how much she loved him, but now it just felt awkward.

“This is Ravenhill.” She glanced at him involuntarily; he’d sounded as stiff and self-conscious as she felt.

Glancing at the birds again, she guessed they were the reason for the name. But she couldn’t think of anything to say, and the silence dragged on. Finally, she observed, “I think the only time I haven’t had a rude awakening since the dreams started was when we were children.”

She’d hoped that if she broke the quiet, he would think of a way to continue the conversation, but the silence resumed, as uncomfortably as before.

“So, another week?”

Thinking of the state of his leg in the waking world, she bobbed her head. “Maybe less.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him nod rapidly, but he seemed as loath to look directly at her as she was at him. It was several minutes before he spoke. “Do… do you want to see Erebor like it was?”

Cautiously, she glanced sidelong at him, and saw how nervous he was. Slowly, she nodded. “I’d like that.”

He smiled hopefully; another moment later, Dwarves milled around the previously-empty hill, and a ten-year-old-if-he-were-a-Man Thorin pushed through the crowd to extend a hand to her. After a moment, she focused on being fifteen again, and looked up at Thorin as she took his hand. He didn’t look as plump as before, but his grin still made his face almost round in his happiness. His hand was a little calloused, not to the extent as when he was an adult, but enough that it felt right, somehow.

She returned his smile shyly, and they began the walk to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if it seemed like the tone was jumping all over the place, but, well... it kind of was. To be fair, this is four consecutive nights/dreams, all with wildly different settings/memories/conversations; keeping anything consistent would be pretty much impossible. But that was also kind of the point: they're both struggling with how the dreams are changing things, and in case it wasn't clear, part of the magic of the dreams is that they have the level of understanding and intimacy with each other appropriate to having several years of healthy, committed marriage under their belts.   
> ...While also only consciously knowing each other as well as people who just met a couple weeks earlier would. It's weird and complicated and confusing, and I wanted to make it clear that it is for them, too. But since they have absolutely no recollection of the dreams while they're awake, their waking friendship and sleeping romance are progressing separately, though their romantic relationship is being helped along by their friendship. I hope that's clear, the way I'm writing it.   
> Link for the week is (https://cdn-img.instyle.com/sites/default/files/styles/684xflex/public/1490385264/032417-candlesstick-lead.jpg?itok=stgc-V-O); I refuse to watch any musical that autotunes its cast, so I obviously haven't seen the new B&tB, but I have seen the trailers, so I already had their version of Lumière in my head when I started writing this. Mostly, though, he still looks like Bofur. Just tiny and metal. (^u^)  
> Also, I would like to reiterate, Kobor/Diarmait/dragon!Thorin DOES NOT remember the dreams while he's awake. Without going into detail, just know that he is literally not capable of PG-13-for-non-violent-reasons feelings. Seriously. Blegh, I'm nauseous just thinking about a dragon thinking about that stuff. *shudders* Actually, that's why the dreams keep ending as soon as things get steamy: it's a failsafe to keep the disconnect between his Dragon and Dwarf sides minimal.  
> Also-also, links for her jewelry (and his crown) are on the corresponding words.  
> À bientôt!


	16. May 12, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And who’d have guessed that they’d come together on their own?

Bell let out a strangled half-shriek as Diarmait slid down a few inches. He swore, re-stabbing his claws into the rock, then called back, “Bell?”

Speech was difficult, what with her heart and stomach vying for space in her throat, but she managed a weak, “I’m fine!” As she spoke, a pebble dislodged from the wall, nearly hitting her on its way down; involuntarily, she tracked it as it fell past her, and the sight of the drop made her lock her arms and legs more tightly around the spine in front of her. Screwing her eyes shut, she mumbled, “Still very much not fond of heights, but otherwise fine.”

He only grunted at that, and began climbing again. Stubbornly, she forced her eyes open; if she was going to fall to her death (which she almost certainly was), she wanted to see as much of the sky as she could. Fifteen days with only a tea-tray-sized view of it had left her feeling as though she were grasping for something precious, only to have it always just out of reach.

(The thought almost reminded her of something, but she forgot it as quickly as it occurred to her.)

Though, fifteen days with Diarmait had been… surprising.

She wouldn’t quite call him a friend yet, or at least not as good a friend as Bard, but she couldn’t help but like him. She’d entirely lost her fear of him in the first few days, and it had only taken another handful before she was comfortable around him; he’d continued to prove himself to be better than she’d thought, and also shown himself to be more intelligent than she’d expected, more compassionate than she’d hoped, and not a bad storyteller.

Granted, his moods were darker than Erebor, but compared to some of the people in Lake-town, he was a veritable ray of sunshine.

Weak sunshine, with clouds covering the sun and rain on the horizon, but still.

He hissed quietly; her eyes darted to his side as though she could see his leg through him. He still wasn’t fully healed, and if he’d only had four limbs, she’d have insisted they wait to climb out for another week, at least, but his wings were strong enough to take some of the weight off his legs. Even so, this was probably going to set his recovery back a full month; part of her was a little glad of it, as it gave her an excuse to stay in the mountain.

A heart-pounding eternity later, he hauled himself over the edge of the cliff; as soon as he was far enough from the edge, she slid bonelessly off his back and laid flat on the grass. “Oh, dear Eru, solid ground!”

He huffed (she recognized it as his ‘I’m-not-going-to-let-on-how-funny-I-actually-find-this’ laugh), and tilted his head, voice warm. “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Lifting her head, she mock-glared at him, doing her best to hold back the grin tugging at her lips. “Like you aren’t going to feel exactly the same way when you go flying again.”

He’d told her enough of flying for her to know there was little he treasured more; it still wasn’t enough to convince her to try it with him, though. At her penultimate word, his eyes flickered, but he shook his head. “That can wait. There could be more wargs out here.”

She didn’t point out that it would be safer for the both of them to fly; she knew he knew. “All right, then.” Sighing, she stood and brushed off her shorts; he extended his wing down the way he had in the pit, and she snorted. “No. If you think I’m taking one foot off of solid ground for a week, you’re mad.”

He raised a brow, but retracted his wing. “Bit difficult to walk if you won’t even lift a foot.”

“Oh, shut up.” He just laughed, and she let herself grin with him. “Who do you think’ll yell loudest? I think either Bofur or Dwalin.”

Huffing, he shook his head as they threaded their way through the trees. “Good bets, but don’t rule out Bifur.”

A flash of color caught her eye, and she moved toward it without thinking. A minute of picking her way through the undergrowth awarded her with a raspberry bush; bemoaning her utter lack of pockets, she crammed as many as she could into her mouth and grabbed as many as she could carry. Retracing her steps was easy enough, but Diarmait was nowhere to be seen once she reached where he’d been. Rolling her eyes, she followed the obvious trail he left; he had enough of a lead that she finished off her mouthful of berries before he even came into view, but she still had a handful left.

“Oi, what was that about?” His head snapped around, but he didn’t say a word, just stared at her. “How many times do I need to remind you of that melodrama of yours?”

“…You came back.” He sounded almost awed; she frowned at him.

“What are you talking about?” Stopping beside him, she tossed a berry in the air, scowling when it bounced off her nose. But she stilled as she took in his full expression. “Did you think I was leaving?” His fins flattened and he looked abruptly away from her; she moved deliberately in front of him. “I told you. I’m staying until you’re recovered, if not even later than that.” There was something heartrendingly vulnerable about the way he looked at her, and she moved closer, berries falling to the ground as she placed her hands on either side of his face; he watched her, wide-eyed, and she smiled comfortingly, guessing at his thoughts. “Yes, I promise.”

 

Thorin glanced at Bell as she picked her way over the rocky ground. Part of him was still somewhat in awe of how easily she’d read him earlier that day, not to mention that she’d willingly put herself arm’s-reach from his teeth and hadn’t even seemed to notice. She truly wasn’t afraid of him.

As they rounded the statue of Thrór to come within view of the gates, a tiny flash of light came from atop the ramparts; he recognized the glint of metal, and bit back a groan as he realized how frantic the Company would be to see them. It had been over a fortnight, after all, and none of the Company could leave the mountain safely. ‘Exuberant’ was going to be putting it lightly.

An hour later, he was proven right. When he and Bell were still a few minutes away from the common room, the entire Company came charging down the corridor, demanding answers, exclaiming over their fresh scars (and Bell’s state of dress), and ushering them into the common room to sit by the fire.

Somewhere along the way, Frerin found a blanket for Bell, and she wrapped herself in it almost as gratefully as Thorin felt; he’d noticed her shivering as they moved through Erebor, but there hadn’t been anything he could do about it.

The deluge of questions persisted for several minutes, and only stopped when Thorin called (repeatedly) for silence. Tharkûn, of course, took full advantage of the lull. “Now, can you explain exactly what happened, my dear?”

Thorin clenched his jaw against the irritation of being passed over, but he was glad to see that Bell was able to answer the wizard civilly; if nothing else, their time in the pit had given her the time she needed to work through her issues with him. She’d even asked Thorin’s advice, once; he felt like a bit of a hypocrite for telling her to do what he couldn’t bear to himself with regards to Thranduil, but there was a bit of a difference in that Gandalf didn’t actually bear any guilt for the Fell Winter.

Thranduil, on the other hand, bore the lives of every Dwarf who’d starved and fallen ill because he refused them aid.

Bell gave an overview of what had happened, though she tried to omit what, exactly, had led her to leave the mountain; Thorin remedied that when his time to speak came. The Company was as horrified as he expected to learn that he’d hurt her, but Bell was quick to defend him, pointing out that she wasn’t as hardy as a Dwarf and that none of them, including Thorin, could have known that beforehand.

Though she didn’t call him Thorin. She still used the name she’d given him in the pit: ‘Diarmait’. He didn’t know what it meant, but he liked it; coming from her, it felt like a term of endearment, though he knew he was getting ahead of himself. And he hadn’t been able to help but laugh when she told the Company, as flatly as she’d told him, that she’d call him ‘beast’ when Men grew wings.

But she was just as quick to reassure them that her scars would fade as she was to tell them that he’d given her every chance to leave, and that she was going to stay anyway, of her own free will.

They didn’t understand any more than he did, though Gandalf seemed unsurprised.

But by then it was late, and after both of them had eaten what Bombur could get ready in such short notice, Bofur and Nori escorted her to her room while Dori and Gandalf discussed making her new clothes. Part of Thorin wished she could stay with him; he’d grown used to sleeping with her at his side, and the idea of sleeping alone felt hollow. But he only wished her goodnight and let her go.

And once she was out of earshot, told Frerin to go down to the mushroom caverns and bring up as many as he could for Bombur to prepare for her breakfast. Telling her about them in the pit would have influenced her decision to stay, but now that she’d made her decision…

Despite how she denied it, she’d lost weight while they were in the pit, and she hadn’t had much to lose. He was going to test her claim; there were more than enough mushrooms in Erebor to fatten one Hobbit.

 

Bell blinked at the expanse of nothing in front of her. It wasn’t white, it wasn’t black, it wasn’t any color or light or anything, but she could still see it somehow, and herself. She could see that she was evidently the only thing there.

She scowled. Where was Thorin? They’d spent the last five nights working their way systematically up from Erebor’s lowest levels, always as children, no matter how the dreams began (at times, unbelievingly temptingly), so why wasn’t he with her now? Why had the dreams cha—

They were in Erebor. Or, if it wasn’t that they were out of the pit, they were sleeping separately; the dreams hadn’t started until the first night she slept at his side, and now she was in her bed in her room, without him, and she was dreaming of this… this…

What was this place, anyway? There was nothing, as far as she could see (well, ‘see’), though…

She listened intently for a few moments. She’d been right, she could hear something. It seemed to fade in and out of her hearing, too faint for her to even tell what it was, but it was there, and it was coming from one direction. Shrugging, she moved toward it. It wasn’t as though there was anything else to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short one today, sorry. If you'd like, I could move the next bonus update up a couple weeks; the next chapter's much longer. Angsty, but longer. (^u^)  
> Also, tiny time-skip, and since most people probably don't have the timeline of the Hobbit book semi-memorized (yes, I'm very aware of how weird I am), part of the reason I've been giving the date as the title of everything is because I've been trying to keep it the same as the timeline of the Quest. The Unexpected Party was April 26, the Trolls were May 29-30 (overnight), the Company reached Rivendell June 12, et cetera, et cetera. Part of the reason I'm doing that, actually, is because I misunderstood Beauty and the Beast (the 1991 Disney movie) for literally most of my life. I always thought that it was supposed to take place over the better part of a year (mostly because there's no snow at the beginning, there's snow in the middle, and then there's no snow at the end), but apparently it's just supposed to be like a few days, a couple weeks, tops! As someone who thinks 'love at first sight' is a trope as unhealthy as it is unrealistic, I much prefer them falling in love over months. So, I'm just going to pretend that I never realized that about the movie and continue thinking of it as a year or so of montage.  
> Last reference link (probably): (https://www.smkw.com/media/catalog/product/cache/image/700x700/e9c3970ab036de70892d86c6d221abfe/s/c/sct24.jpg). That's still not exactly how I imagine Bifur, but that is the general idea. Just imagine those tools, but on a holder that's more rectangular and rustic-looking.  
> À bientôt!  
> (Unless you want an early chapter. Tell you what, if three people comment and say they want it early, I'll post it. How's that sound?)


	17. May 25, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both a little scared, neither one prepared…

Thorin’s head snapped toward the gates so quickly that his face smashed into the doorframe. Swearing darkly as he stumbled blindly back, he nevertheless gingerly felt his way out of the common room and through the corridors until the stars cleared from his vision.

Bell was leaving, again!

She hadn’t said anything about leaving the night before; maybe it had been a sudden decision, but maybe there was a different reason she was leaving the mountain, as there had been a month earlier.

There had to be.

Once he could see, he flew through the mountain quickly enough that Bell hadn’t even made it out of sight when he caught up to her. “Thorin?” Wide silver eyes narrowed quickly, exasperated. “You thought I was leaving again, didn’t you?”

Defensively, he shifted his weight. “You didn’t say you were planning on going out.”

She raised a brow. “And you think I’d leave for Lake-town without saying anything? It’s three days’ walk.”

Put like that, he realized how hasty he’d been: the forest was a bit under half a day’s travel away at her pace, easily reached and returned from in a single day; with far away Lake-town was, and how much Hobbits ate, she’d need more supplies than an empty basket and a single water-flask, certainly more supplies than she could gather without the Company, and therefore him, knowing. The mere fact that he’d been so surprised to sense her leaving should have been enough to clue him in.

But he shook his head anyway. “All right, I was wrong, but I still don’t like the idea of you without any protection out here.” The memory of seeing her in that clearing, surrounded by wargs and terrified, rushed back with blood-chilling clarity.

Her eyes flicked to his leg, now mostly healed, but he still had a visible scar, and likely always would; shivering lightly, she rolled her shoulder and nodded. “Come on, then.”

The walk passed in mostly-comfortable silence: she was comfortable, he wasn’t. He felt ill-at-ease in his skin in a way that he hadn’t for decades, and every noise seemed sure to be a pack of wargs or wolves or Orcs. Reaching the forest didn’t help in the slightest, as it was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction.

She didn’t seem to notice, though, and wandered happily through the trees, filling the basket she carried with what seemed to him to be a completely random selection of leaves, roots, flowers, berries, and even bark. As she strolled along, she snacked on the berries she found; occasionally, he recognized one or another as being deadly to Dwarves, but each time, he reminded himself what she’d said about Hobbits ‘not being so fragile’ and determined to trust her to know what was and wasn’t dangerous.

After a half-hour or so, they emerged into the clearing over the pit; she stopped in her tracks. “Where’re the bodies?”

She sounded odd, but he answered easily. “I moved them into the wilds a few days ago.” It had been one of the first things he’d done once she’d cleared him to fly; granted, it had taken a bit of time, as they’d been half-rotten by then, but he’d wanted to remove every reminder of what had happened from his territory.

“Oh.”

He glanced at her sidelong. “‘Oh’?”

She met his eyes a bit dispiritedly. “I’d been meaning to give them a proper burial, that’s all.”

Incredulous, he reared back. “They tried to eat you!”

Crossing her arms defensively, she countered, “They were animals, that’s all. They were starving, you could see their ribs! I’m not about to hold it against them when they didn’t, couldn’t, know any better.”

Thinking of the years after Erebor fell, he muttered darkly, “Hunger doesn’t excuse cruelty.”

“Not in thinking, rational beings, but they were only animals!” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, and he remembered that she’d somehow killed one of them before he found her.

His anger dissipated, and he looked away with a sigh. For a few moments, he thought she’d continue the argument.

So when motion caught his eye and he looked over to see her lying flat on her back in the grass, he was taken a bit aback. “What are you doing?”

Eyes on the sky, she murmured, “Making a good memory.” After a moment of silence, she met his eyes for a moment. “This place reminds me of the Shire. A little. Not completely, but it’s the closest I’ve found on this side of the Misty Mountains. I don’t want all my memories of this place to be dark.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. She seemed content to just stare at the sky, so after a few minutes, he rolled onto his back and looked up, too; it was more comfortable with his wings outstretched, so the fact that one edge of the wing nearest her happened to come to rest against her hand was pure coincidence, of course. (He kept the contact to that spot, so that all she’d have to do was move her hand a few inches and she wouldn’t be touching him, but instead she moved her hand toward his wing, so the length of it rested against his scales.)

After another few minutes, she chuckled drowsily. “That cloud looks like Bag-End.”

He blinked slowly. “That was your house in the Shire?”

“Mmm. They’re called ‘smials’, but yeah.”

He looked over the clouds in view, but none of them looked anything like a house: too round, too small. He was asleep before he could ask her to point it out.

He looked around the apple orchard, taking in the blossoms on the trees, rather than the fruits that had been there the last time. “Spring?”

Beside him, Bell nodded; his eyes lingered on the delicate metal [vines](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a3/09/d1/a309d156e889ef65372aa009dffbc9e6.jpg) that curled out from over her ear, caressing her cheek and temple the way he wanted to. He could recognize his own handiwork well enough; at nearly the same moment, he realized that in every dream where the two of them were in public, but not dressed for official business, she wore similar pieces of jewelry in lieu of a crown. Following that train of thought, several ideas for different styles, according to what season it was, or how warm it was, or just how beautiful she looked, occurred to him.

And in light of that, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that she wore a different piece in every dream.

“…ell tended. This almost looks like Hobbit handiwork.”

He blinked. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

She turned to him, exasperated, but stilled as soon as their eyes met. “Don’t you look at me like that.”

A slow grin crept over him. “Like what? Like you’re my wife?”

He advanced slowly; she backed away, fighting a laugh. “Yes, and don’t you dare! You know what happens!”

That broke his mood; she was right: if he let himself follow that train of thought, they’d wake in a heartbeat. “I do.” Deliberately, he took several steps back from her; she laughed. “What cloud were you talking about, by the way?”

She furrowed her brow. “Cloud?”

“You said you saw one that looked like Bag-End. Which did you mean? I couldn’t find it.”

A considering look lit her eyes, and she grinned. “There’s an easier way to show you.”

A blink later, they stood on a well-trodden path on a sunlit hill, overlooking a small village, of sorts; Bell looked about twelve or so, and copying her age was habit by now. Giggling, she pulled him around until he was facing a round, green door set into the hill. Glancing over the curves of the apparent building, he thought back to the clouds they’d seen.

He bobbed his head from side to side. “All right, I can see it.” Still giggling, she spun in a victorious circle, grass-stained skirts flaring, then grabbed his hand and hauled him down the hill; laughing, he stumbled after her, fighting not to lose his balance; with how light she was, he’d probably squish her. “Where are you taking me?”

“The Party Tree!”

A few minutes later, Thorin stared at the scene before him, awestruck. The journey, short as it had been, had been overwhelming enough, but this was beyond belief. No less than thirty children were running and playing in the clearing, all of them happier and better fed than any stripling since Erebor fell. Bell was giving him their names and how they were related to her, which he barely heard. On the edges of the clearing, older Hobbits chatted and laughed, more than a few of them holding children too young to play with the rest, or looking as though they weren’t much more than children themselves. And all around the clearing were tables of food and gifts.

In the hundred and twelve years before he and the Company had returned to Erebor, there had only been a dozen births, out of which four children had survived to adulthood: Ori, Fíli, Kíli, and Gimli. For Durin’s folk, food was scarce and work was scarcer, and children were a fool’s dream.

And here, in a land he’d barely taken more notice of than to glance at it on a map, there was bounty the likes of which Dwarves could only dream. Even Men could hardly dream of such. A shuddering breath left him, and Bell’s chatter abruptly cut off. “Thorin? Are you all right?”

He couldn’t answer her, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight, couldn’t even move. The world rippled, and they were in the forest again; Bell moved in front of him, still concerned. With an effort, he shook his head. “Fine— I’m fine—”

His voice broke, and so did he. His legs gave out from underneath him, and he collapsed onto the ground, seeing and hearing nothing but what an utter fool he’d been.

After Azanulbizar, his pride had demanded that he lead his people to another, Dwarven, kingdom. In Ered Luin, his pride had demanded that he provide for his people himself, without seeking charity from Men, Elves, or whoever lived in a ridiculous place like ‘the Shire’. After he’d been crowned, his pride had demanded that he reclaim his homeland, rather than seeking to establish a new colony, no matter how many reports came of an abundance of land in what used to be Arnor.

And all the while, there was a land of people who, if Bell was typical of her race in the slightest, would have gladly given them all the work they wanted, if not food and medicine and anything else they asked for.

He’d been such a fool.

Slowly, he realized that he could hear humming, cracking as though the girl had been doing so for some time, and something was tugging on his hair. Blinking against the soft light of the forest, he rubbed his cheeks; the humming faltered, then continued, somewhat more quietly. As he raised his head from where he’d hidden his face in his arms, he realized that they weren’t in the forest outside Erebor after all, but in older, tamer, more open woods. It wasn’t hard to guess that these were the woods in the Shire that she’d been reminded of, and it was just as easy to guess who was humming.

The tugging stopped as he turned to Bell, and he raised one hand to his head to find a garden’s worth of flowers braided into his hair; she met his eyes calmly, though hers were red-rimmed, and simply waited.

There was nothing he could think to say that would come anywhere near the explanation she deserved, so instead he closed his eyes, focused on staying twelve, and looked again at the once-familiar sight of a Dwarven traveling camp.

Bell looked around them, eyes shining and breath ragged, but he didn’t wait for her to speak before he changed the scene again, to the dusty nursery in Ered Luin, then to the celebrations when Ori was born, and then Fíli, and Kíli, and Gimli.

At the last, the sight of his sister and Sídri holding their boys, his precious nephews, he had to change the scene to pre-Smaug Erebor in the moonlight before he broke apart again.

He braced himself for questions that would be as hard to answer as it had been to see his family, but instead Bell launched herself into his arms, sobbing, and knocked him over. His arms wrapped around her automatically, but it was only a few seconds before he realized that she was trying to comfort him, not seeking comfort herself. How she’d figured it out so quickly, he didn’t know, but he just buried his face in her hair and let himself take what comfort she offered.

After a few minutes, she drew back, still hiccuping softly, and held his eyes; the sobriety in her tear-stained face was as out of place as a beard on an Elf, but no less compelling for that. In her eyes, he saw a familiar pain, too familiar. She pinched his cheeks together slightly, pulling his full attention back to her, and enunciated carefully, “You didn’t know.” A shocked breath left him; a tear spilled down her cheek, but she only repeated, “You didn’t know. You are not at fault any more than Glóin’s wife and son are at fault for not coming to find him. Ignorance is not the same as inaction. Don’t you dare think it is.”

Brokenly, he shook his head. “I knew that there was empty land in Arnor. I’ve traveled through Bree, I should’ve realized, should’ve—”

Mouth twisting into a fractured facsimile of a smile, she tightened her grip; she wasn’t strong enough to hold him still, but he stilled anyway, recognizing her intent. “And if you had stormed into the Shire, trailing warriors behind you, every Hobbit that saw you would’ve run and hid before you even glimpsed them. Any treaties or arrangements or anything with the Shire would’ve had to be delicately handled, and if you didn’t go through the Thain, you would’ve scared anyone who saw you to death. We aren’t brave like Dwarves. Anything new is dangerous, and anything that seems dangerous usually is. If you’d found a way to get us to see you all as needing help, rather than threats, then we would’ve given you all the help you needed, but unless you got Gandalf to introduce you especially, it would’ve taken you a decade just to convince us that you weren’t going to kill us all in our sleep.”

A mix of surprise and disappointment struck him, and some of it must have shown on his face, as her expression turned wry. “We aren’t strong. We aren’t tall. Literally the only talents we have that could, possibly, be used to defend ourselves are inherently good aim and learning to chop vegetables from a frightfully young age. The world is huge and full of menaces we have no choice but to run from, and most of them seem harmless at first.”

He huffed mirthlessly. “And to Dwarves, the world is full of people who belittle us at best and see us as threats at worst.”

She smiled genuinely, hands falling to his arms. “Sounds as though it would do you all good to be around people who want to help.”

Taking her hands in his, he smiled back. “Sounds as though Hobbits could use people to protect them.”

Eyes falling to their hands, her smile faded slightly. “What a better world it would be if we’d known to look for you.”

Heart in his throat, he could only nod.

Thorin woke with a start, blinking at the clouds overhead. As Bell stirred, he looked over, caught by her oddly-melancholy expression for the few heartbeats before it faded away as though it had never been there. Meeting his eyes, she smiled sheepishly. “I wasn’t actually planning on falling asleep when I laid down.”

Chuckling, he stood, careful not to hit her accidentally. “Clearly, you’re overworking yourself with Balin and Dwalin.”

She snorted, brushing off her skirts; the motion was almost familiar, but he couldn’t think why. “No, believe me, I’m not. I haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.”

A pang struck him. “Why not?” If there was a specific reason, maybe he could do something about it.

But she shrugged. “I’m not sure. It might be the silence, or the dark. Of course, it could also just be that I’m not used to sleeping in a bed big enough to fit Bard’s entire family.”

“That’s… Bain, Sigrid, and… Tilly?”

“Tilda, but the others were right.” Good, he had remembered. The conversation flowed easily as they walked back to the mountain, and successfully diverted him from how close he’d come to realizing that he hadn’t slept well since the pit, either.

 

“So, am I allowed in here now?” Bell glanced dubiously over the treasury as she spoke, though for the most part, she kept her eyes on Thorin.

(Thorin said _‘yes, always’_. Kobor said _‘no, never’_. Dís said _‘shut up and answer’_.)

He nodded. “Not alone, but if someone’s with you, I don’t see why not.”

She smirked up at him bemusedly. “Did you bring me here just to say that?”

“No.” Turning, he only had to take a few steps to the pillar to retrieve the piece he’d stashed there earlier. “I brought you here to give you this.”

Mithril reflected in her eyes as she carefully accepted the tunic, clearly appreciating the make, though he doubted she had any idea of its worth. “It’s armor. Light enough for you, strong enough to protect you against nearly anything.”

At his nod, she slipped it on; he had to fight not to laugh at how oversized it was on her. The sleeves reached nearly to her forearms, though even after she fastened the collar, the wide neckline left her more exposed than he would prefer; the hem, though, fell to her knees, and something in Thorin settled to see her so shielded.

But she just laughed. “It barely feels like I’m wearing anything! I’m not sure how much safer I’ll be, wearing this.”

Chuckling, he lay in front of her, and gently poked one swinging corner. “This material is called mithril, and believe me, it’ll keep you safe. I don’t expect you to wear it constantly, but I would ask you to wear it whenever you leave the mountain, whether you’re alone or not.”

She stilled. “I thought you didn’t want me to go out alone.”

Grimacing, he squirmed. “I’d still prefer you took either me or Frerin with you, and I’d prefer if you told me when you planned to go out, so I could check if anything dangerous was in the area, but…” Sighing, he laid his head on his forepaws. “You were never meant to be a prisoner here. I won’t treat you like one.”

For a few moments, she studied his expression. Then she smiled. “Then thank you for the gift.” Grinning, she ran her hands over the links. “It truly is beautiful, even if it is armor.” At that, he had to snort; she turned abruptly pink. “Oh, that came out wrong.”

“But it was well-meant, and I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Her blush deepened, but she smiled. “Good.”

With that, they went their separate ways: he further into the treasury, she to the common room, he assumed. If he kept an ear out, no one was there to see, and if at the sound of a shocked, shrieked, _‘what’_ , he dissolved into snickers, no one was there to hear. He was going to get it once she made her way back to the treasury, he knew, but part of him just wished he’d seen her face when the Company told her she was wearing a tunic worth at least half the treasury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early bonus chapter, as requested. Hope you like it!  
> BTW, 'twelve, or so' for Dwarves is about nine and a half for Hobbits, and both correspond to six years old for humans.  
> Also, the more I read/write Hobbit fics, the more I feel like Hobbits and Dwarves were made (possibly literally) to be together. They're such opposites that they would balance each other out nicely, and they're enough alike that they could get along well, if the Dwarves didn't scare them off and if the Hobbits learned to accept that Dwarves are just not made for gentility. Honestly, I'm so tempted to write an AU where the Hobbits in Anduin went East instead of West when Sauron freaked them out, or where Thorin did wander into the Shire after he was made King and realized they could do well there.  
> Actually, Thorin became King (according to the book!timeline) in 2850, which was right around when Belladonna was born, which means it wouldn't be completely insane for him to start looking for work in the Shire and bb!Belladonna to latch onto him and insist that he and her Da make some kind of treaty so her favorite person can come and play more often.  
> ...which would, of course, lead to Thorin being (fem!)Bilbo's Godfather, and possibly a marriage alliance between the Thain's granddaughter and one of Thorin's nephews.  
> Hmm...  
> À bientôt!


	18. May 29, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve won your own free pass/ to be our guest!

Bell shook her head, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to stop running her fingers over the constellations in the tapestry. “It’s not right.”

Bofur groaned; Nori smacked him without looking and wheedled, “You’re the only person in the entire mountain who’ll appreciate it, Bell. Why shouldn’t you take it?”

“It’s not mine!” Even if it was one of the most beautiful things she’d seen in the weeks since she and the Company began cleaning up the ruined marketplace. Really, it was a miracle it wasn’t so moth-eaten that the pattern couldn’t be seen, but then, no animals seemed to be brave enough to enter the mountain. Whether it was Smaug’s influence or Diarmait’s, she didn’t know, but it was curious all the same.

Frerin shrugged. “If it’s anyone’s, it’s Kobor’s, since he should be King.”

Bofur nodded enthusiastically. “And he’d want you to take it, lass!”

She’d bitten her tongue as Frerin spoke, and had to unclench her jaw before she could respond. “You don’t know that.”

Bofur snorted. “Bloody well say I do, with how he’s been moonin—”

Nori hit him again. “What he means is that we’ve known him for half a century, love. If that was gold, he’d want it in the treasury, but as it is, he wouldn’t see any more use for it than we do.”

Frerin pointed out, “Besides, that’s not Dwarven work. Looks Mannish to me, so the original owner won’t mind, and there’s no way to know if he or she has any descendants.”

Bell’s resolve wavered. She’d assumed that it had been made by a Dwarf, that there was someone out there who remembered making it, or at least remembered seeing his or her parent make it, who would want it back. But Men didn’t even live as long as Hobbits, and it had been more than a century and a half.

As Bell bit her lip, Nori added, “Besides, even if the proper owner is still alive, there’s no way we can return it to whoever it is until the curse is broken, so it’ll just moulder away down here without someone to fix it up.”

Bofur nodded cheerfully. “Like with your rooms!”

Unease beginning to fade, she glared at each of them in turn. “As soon as the curse breaks, you’re all helping me find out if the owner wants it back.” They all agreed, and her eyes fell to the tapestry again. She smiled.

 

Thorin rounded a corner curiously, only to stop dead in his tracks as he saw what the caterwauling noise was. Bell doubled over laughing as Glóin’s song hit a particularly strident note, and Frerin’s bearing seemed to say that he wished he still had ears, so he could stop them up.

“What are you doing?” Glóin broke off immediately, which led Frerin to let out a heartfelt ‘thank Mahal’, which only made Bell laugh harder; she wore a plain grey scarf over her hair, covering hair and ears alike from her temples to the twisted bun at the nape of her neck. It was a thoroughly unDwarven style, so he couldn’t figure out why it looked so familiar.

Frerin was the one to answer, in the end. “Cleaning.” Pointedly, he picked up Bell’s broom and held it out to her. “Bell decided she can’t stand to live anyplace as dirty as this.”

Scoffing, she took the broom and hit him in the face with the bristled end; remembering her doing the same to him in the pit, Thorin fought a grin. “That’s not what I said and you know it. It’s not right for me to take all sorts of things and not do anything in return. Besides,” she gestured to Thorin, “you’re past needing a full-time nurse, and there’s not much I can do for Balin but plan yet, which I can do just as well while I’m doing something else.” She shrugged. “I’m not in the habit of sitting idle. I need something or other to do, and between cleaning and cooking, I’d rather clean.”

Shaking his head at her unselfishness, he turned to go, but bent down to meet her eyes just before he did. “You’re free to claim anything in the mountain, Bell.” Narrowing her eyes, she opened her mouth to argue, but he forestalled her. “If you’re going to do such services for Erebor, then it’s only fair that you be paid, and as the only payment available is in furniture and such…” He trailed off, trusting her to understand.

Though she glared at him for a moment or two longer, she clearly did understand. “Fine. But I’m holding you to the same promise as Bofur, Nori, and Frerin: when the time comes, you are helping me get everything back to its proper owner!”

He nodded easily and left; as he moved toward the gates, a corridor caught his eye, and he stopped. Glancing back, he debated whether or not to recruit Frerin for several seconds, but dismissed the idea and walked down on his own, wings folded tightly against his sides. The door was tricky to open, as there was only just enough room for him to squeeze past it and into the vast, dark room.

He looked around it, noting what he could fix and what he would need Frerin to help him with, and again debated whether to fetch him now, but again dismissed the thought. Bell needed his help more than Thorin did at the moment. Besides, he could get started on his own, at least.

 

Bell unclipped the cuffs from her ears and set them on the dresser table, then pulled the pins out of her bun. Her hair exploded out, though the length and weight of it kept it from being truly wild, and she combed her fingers through it for a few seconds, relishing the oddly-lush feel of it.

Then she tried to take the beads out.

Several minutes later, she was still trying to take the beads out, and muttering curses in a language she didn’t understand under her breath. Rich, low chuckling came from out of view, and her husband’s reflection appeared in the mirror. Kissing her temple, he plucked a comb off the table and began working the beads free. She watched him work, feeling utterly content, but still had to ask, “What is it with Dwarves and beads, anyway?”

He chuckled again, even as he tried to disentangle the comb without pulling on her hair. “Efficiency, for one. With beads, all it takes is a glance to know a Dwarf’s heritage, occupation, marital status, and rank. It’s also easy to tell how wealthy a Dwarf is based on the make of the beads and what other ornaments he or she wears.” His movements slowed as his expression darkened slightly. “And we’ve learned, through the Ages, to wear as much of our wealth on us as we can. There’s never a guarantee that we’ll be able to return to our vaults.”

Heart aching for him, she reached behind her and caught his forearm, holding his eyes as hers burned; he slid his arm through her grasp until his hand was in hers, and then pressed her palm to his lips. For a long moment, neither one moved but to breathe, taking solace in the sound of the other.

Letting out a shuddering breath, he kissed her hand again and released it, going back to his task. “Besides which, they’re the simplest test of skill. Small enough that finding enough material is relatively easy, but elaborate enough to try any craftsman. In times of scarcity, they’re usually given as courting gifts, as more gifts can be expensive.”

“Courting gifts?” The thought was odd, but he looked at her as though the question was more so.

“Do Hobbits not exchange gifts?”

“Well,” she shifted slightly in her seat, adjusting her thick dressing-gown to lie more comfortably on her shoulders; Thorin’s eyes followed the motion, before he screwed them shut and took a deep breath, “We give gifts on our birthdays, which I understand is the opposite way to Men, and family members often make each other gifts, clothes and things, at the winter solstice, but for courting, no.”

“What do you do, then?” As he spoke, he drew over a chair, setting it a good foot away from hers; if his voice hadn’t been so husky, she might have wondered why.

Clearing her throat against the heat creeping through her, she fixed her eyes to the side of his head. “Well, most couples have known each other for most of their lives, so they just kiss, or sometimes ask each other to dance at a solstice fête, and after that, all there is to do is prepare. One or both of them makes things for their home, or fixes up the smial if there’s one lying empty, and when they have enough to live comfortably, they marry. In the meantime, they take meals together, with one family or the other chaperoning. And that’s really all there is to it.” She laughed. “I can’t imagine how gifts would fit into it.”

He smirked, an oddly-admiring light in his eyes. “Courting is a simple thing among Hobbits, then.”

That look on his face was starting to send sparks along her spine; holding his eyes, she crossed her legs slowly, letting the dressing gown fall just slightly open. Something flared in his eyes; smirking, she raised her brows at him. “What is Dwarven courting like, then?”

Grinning crookedly, he leaned back in his chair, just far enough to change the way the collar of his shirt fell, just enough to expose his clavicle and allow dark hair to poke over the fabric; she swallowed thickly, breath a bit shallow, and his grin turned a trifle smug. “At least one gift is given by each, though more is usual. If there’s only one, it’s generally a marriage bead, sometimes newly-forged, sometimes a family heirloom, especially in noble families. If there’s more than one gift, they’re typically displays of wealth, to prove their abilities to provide for the other, but frivolous gifts, no matter how opulent, imply that the recipient is helpless or incompetent.”

Humming lowly, she drew her hair over one shoulder and combed her fingers slowly through it, gratified by the hungry way he followed the motion, hands clenching on his armrests. “So an inexpensive, but practical gift is better than a useless, lavish one?”

Eyes dark and intense the way she loved, he tucked a sheet of hair behind his ear, running his finger along the curve of it; feeling the ghost of his touch along her own ear, she shivered, heat rippling through her. “Exactly. A practical, lavish one is better than anything, of course.”

For a long moment, they only stared at each other, waiting for the other to act first. It was a dangerous game they were playing, she knew, since at any moment, they could be forcefully woken before things could escalate, but all the same, it was a game worth the risk.

She smiled wolfishly. _‘And still my favorite game to play.’_

But remembering that they’d never played it before, in reality, was enough to bring her to her senses, and she braced herself for the short fall.

Expecting the change, she caught herself before she went head over heels in the snowbank behind her; Thorin, though, landed face-first in a drift, and came up spluttering. Looking at him as a seventeen-year-old, he seemed the size of a bear, and twice as fierce. With a mock-shriek, she hid behind a mound of snow and began preparing.

“What—” Her snowball struck him in the face before he could get anything more out, and she ducked down again as it hit, though she did peek over the drift to see his reaction. For a moment after he wiped off the snow, he just stood there.

Then he grinned, and in another instant, he was eleven-if-he-were-a-Man, and he threw an armful of snow at her with a high-pitched battle-cry.

She shrieked, laughing, and pelted him with snowballs as she ran for cover. He chased, and they played.

Bell woke with a shiver, but the delight from her dream lingered, dulling her embarrassment as she stood from Diarmait’s side. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He shook his head, fins flattened slightly. “No, I should’ve done something when I noticed you drifting off.”

She couldn’t actually argue that, so with only a somewhat-awkward hesitation, she left and went to her own room.

(In her mortification, she didn’t even notice that the corridors weren’t as pitch-black as usual.)

 

Looking at the nothing, Bell sighed. Even after the weeks she’d been dreaming of this nothing-world, there was still nothing to be seen, and the sound was only slightly louder than it had been. It was loud enough to be recognizable as music, at least, though she still couldn’t make out the melody. There was something about it, though, that…

That was almost familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say about this one, other than I'm not super proud of it. There's nothing terrible about it, as far as I can tell, there's just nothing outstanding about it, either. This is Part Two, by the way. Part One went from chapters 1-15, Part Two will be 16-26, Part Three will be 27-31, and then the epilogue.  
> À bientôt!


	19. June 21, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now he’s dear, and so unsure… who’d have ever thought that this could be?

“Diarmait, where are we going?” She noted a few areas she could work on later as they walked, but was careful to stay in view of him; he seemed to be intentionally taking the most circuitous route possible, and if she fell behind and got lost, he’d never let her live it down. Now, if the mountain were sensibly built, like a smial, she’d know exactly where they were no matter how he went in circles, but with how many levels there were, the map in her mind ended up with fifty things crammed into the same space, and she could never remember which were on which floor, let alone which floor she was on.

“You’ll see.” She narrowed her eyes at him, but had to fight a smile; he was planning something, she could hear it, and whatever it was, he was very pleased with himself.

A moment later, she caught sight of a cleverly-made bookshelf, and for an instant, she was standing in Bag-End’s library as a fauntling, staring up at what, at the time, had seemed like a innumerable amount of books. Bag-End was gone, and she’d made her peace with that long before, but even in the Woodland Realm, she hadn’t seen such a library. She missed books.

Shaking off her melancholy, she realized Diarmait was out of sight and around a corner; rolling her eyes with a half-smile, she raced to catch up. And then she froze, heart pounding, asshe realized there was no floor on either side of her.

She’d seen the ridiculous deathtraps the Company call walkways, of course, but from a safe distance, and every time she looked up and realized they rose above her as far as she could see, Bofur’s candles seeming more like stars from that range, her heart dropped straight into her feet. She’d gotten lost more than once avoiding them, and the fact that there was only a profound, ravenous, sinister blackness below her only made it harder and harder for her to avoid thinking of just how easily the stone could crack and split and send her falling, tumbling, plummeting, down, downdowndowndown—

“Bell?” She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t open her eyes if her life depended on it, but he sounded worried.

Her pulse was roaring in her ears, rushing like wind, and if she could, she would have dropped to her hands and knees, would have felt the stone under her feet with as much of her as she could, but her lungs refused to fill and her head was beginning to reel, and the thought of moving in the slightest was enough to turn her blood to ice. Diarmait called her name again, closer now, but barely loud enough to hear over the rushing of wind in her ears. “I— I can’t—”

Something warm was in front of her, radiating enough heat for her to feel it even though it wasn’t touching her, even through her fog. “Bell, you’re safe. Open your eyes.”

At that, she shook her head rapidly, stopping with a whimper when the motion nearly unbalanced her. “I can’t.”

The warm thing moved until it surrounded her, then wrapped gently around her; she nearly jumped as she realized she could feel a slow heartbeat in it, but she only reached gingerly out and traced the scale-covered sheet to a relatively-thin limb, about as thick around as Bard’s forearm, and kinked at a slight angle a few feet up. Slowly, she realized that it was Diarmait’s tail-fin around her, and a fraction of her panic faded. “I’ll guide you, Bell. I won’t let you fall. Move forward.”

Her breath caught. “But what if something happens— what if it breaks— what if we both fall?!?”

The fin curled around her lightly. “Then I’ll catch you.”

That was right, he had wings. But even that didn’t affect the sheer terror pounding through her, and it was only after another minute’s coaxing that she began to shuffle forward. With every motion, her entire being screamed that she was about to walk over the drop, despite the fact that she could hear Diarmait’s voice directly in front of her, hear him walking slowly forward on solid stone.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that she was being irrational. That didn’t make her any less afraid.

After an eternity, the sound of the air around her changed; a handful of seconds after she noticed that, warmth surrounded her more completely than before, and she opened her eyes a crack to see that Diarmait was coiled into a circle with her in the middle, and they were on solid ground again. All her tension abruptly draining out of her, she collapsed against his side; it was another few moments before she realized she could feel words rumbling through him and into her, though she couldn’t hear a thing over her still-rapid pulse.

Gradually, her heart and breathing slowed, and she straightened; with one claw, he pushed a few strands of hair that had come free of her scarf away from her face, more delicately than she would’ve thought him capable of. Face heating, she couldn’t hold his eyes. “I’m sorry, that was— I—”

She couldn’t find the words to explain, not when she wasn’t sure she understood herself, but he only shushed her gently. “You don’t need to explain, Bell.” Confused, she blinked at him; his fins drooped sorrowfully as he spoke, but the bass thrum of his voice was inexplicably soothing, given the subject matter. “After Smaug took Erebor, there were a number of Dwarves who couldn’t stand the slightest flame, a few who even took their chances in the wilderness rather than stay near the campfires. Even now, there are those who cannot tolerate working a forge, who’ve had to find another craft.”

Laying against his side again, her heart slowed further, and it was easier than she’d expected to remember. “I used to climb trees, as a fauntling. Then I— I lost interest,” _‘after the Winter’_ , “And then the next time I stood on anything higher than a hill was in the Misty Mountains.” She couldn’t hold his eyes, but she couldn’t close hers without seeing the valley again; instead, she kept her eyes on his severed spike. “The path we took was safe enough, but I wandered sometimes. Just before we made it out, I found a spot overlooking the whole of the valley. I couldn’t breathe, it was so beautiful. And then the stone gave way under my feet and I just couldn’t breathe.”

He tensed, but said nothing; she wiped her cheeks and continued. “I caught myself, pulled myself back up, and I was fine, and then a few days after we left the mountains behind, it suddenly hit me that I nearly died, and I had nightmares until a few months after we settled in Lake-town. But since then…”

She trailed off, but he nodded, eyes soft. “And yet you climbed into the pit.”

Sniffling, she shook her head emphatically. “You needed help, that was more important. And anyway, it’s different with stone. Standing on grass, or wood, or nearly anything, it’s not half as bad, but standing on stone and seeing the drop, it’s…”

“…Like you’re in the Misty Mountains again.” She nodded mutely; he sighed. “I’m sorry for putting you through that, and for flying you here in the first place.”

Wiping her cheeks again, she shook her head. “No, I told you, it’s different. Being airborne because of a dragon was terrifying, not petrifying.”

Chuckles bounced through her, and he inclined his head to her slightly. “A significant difference, indeed.” She swatted him half-heartedly, but her mood lightened somewhat, and she stood with him easily. “I won’t tell the Company without your permission, but I think you should know, if you choose to tell Frerin, he’ll regale you with the tale of how he had a similar experience after Azanulbizar.”

She raised her brows at him. “Really?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, he can’t see an Orc without killing it.”

As jokes went, it wasn’t much, but it was enough to coax a laugh from her, and they began walking again. “What’s Azanulbizar?”

She took the word slowly, careful not to mispronounce it, but he froze for an instant anyway; for an instant, she wondered if she’d somehow mangled it into something rude, but he only sighed and quietly answered, “A tragedy. Frerin’s grandfather, King Thrór, thought to reclaim the lost city of Moria from the Orcs that have infested it. It didn’t work. We won, but our numbers fell to a fraction of what we’d had, and Frerin nearly joined the fallen.”

The pronoun didn’t escape her. “You were there?”

He nodded. “As were Balin, Dwalin, and Bifur. I was meant to watch out for Frerin, but I lost sight of him for a few moments. An Orc miscalculated a strike and gave Frerin just enough warning to keep his head on his shoulders, but he almost—” He cut himself off with a growl, twisting his head away from her, every muscle that she could see tense under his skin.

Carefully, she moved to stand beside him, and laid a hand on his cheek; he turned to look at her, eyes wide, but she didn’t speak. Following an instinct she didn’t really understand, she leaned her head against his temple, letting her eyes close; a shudder wracked through him, but he didn’t draw away. Feeling the last of her own tension drain away with his, she stayed there for a handful of minutes before stepping back and nodding to the way ahead. “I believe you had something to show me?”

Surprise crossed his features, followed quickly by confusion. (A fair-sized part of a shadowed corner of her mind wondered why she could read him so easily, but the thought was gone as quickly as it occurred to her.) “I’d thought to take you back to the common room. After…”

He gestured wordlessly to the deathtrap behind them; she snorted. “You must be joking. After that, it would be pointless not to go forward; I refuse to go through anything unpleasant for no reason if I can help it.”

He just laughed at that, and the conversation flowed lightly as they walked; she suspected they were still taking a rather circuitous route, but she couldn’t bring herself to mind. In the pit, they’d had little choice but to talk to each other, but it hadn’t taken long before she enjoyed speaking with him as much as she did with the Bardlings or their father. The difference in their races, let alone their ages (he wouldn’t give a straight answer on the subject, but he’d let enough clues slip that she had a decent guess) meant that for every way they agreed, there were two they disagreed. Sometimes it was due to the differences in their natures and they had to simply accept that they’d never see eye-to-eye, and sometimes one or both of them changed their minds after long hours of debate.

By all rights, it should’ve been tedious, but for the first time since the Fell Winter, she truly wanted to learn all she could. She’d been a voracious student as a fauntling, always pestering her parents for everything they knew on one topic or another, but afterwards, she hadn’t cared about much of anything, let alone the outside world. But in the month or so since the two of them had limped back to Erebor, she’d started caring again. In Lake-town, knowledge only made things more depressing, but the more she learned about Erebor, the more she could understand why the Company had wanted it back so badly, and the more she learned about Dwarves, the less she understood why Men and Elves were so dismissive of them.

Regardless, she enjoyed talking with Diarmait more than she’d ever thought she would, and the conversation that passed between them was diverting enough that she was completely blindsided when he stopped in front of a huge set of double doors. He paused for a long moment; she huffed, amused. “Don’t tell me you only wanted to show me the entrance to whatever this is.”

Rather than teasing her back as usual, though, he shot her a wide-eyed glance, and her eyes widened. He almost looked… nervous.

But without any more fanfare, he pulled one of the doors open, effectively trapping himself behind it, but the glimpse of the room inside took her mind entirely away from him. Awestruck, she drifted in without any conscious effort, and as the shelves she’d glimpsed proved to be a tiny fraction of the wealth of books inside, she was hard-pressed not to just cry.

She’d never seen so many books in her life, and for once, she hadn’t the slightest complaint about the towering, soaring architecture of Dwarves. The shelves filled her vision, stretching higher than the light around her could reach, farther than she could see before her, and every single one of them was packed with books, thousands of books, thousands upon thousands.

They were sure to all be written in some obscure Dwarven language she hadn’t a hope of reading, but even if she could never read a one of them, she was surrounded by books for the first time in more than twenty years, and that was enough.

For now.

 

She’d still been staring around her when he squirmed into the room, tears spilling unnoticed over her cheeks; he’d nearly had a heart attack, but then she’d thrown her arms around him and told him in words almost too tear-choked to understand that she was happy, truly. She’d pulled him around the library for over an hour, with question after question about the subjects, the languages, who wrote them, when were they written, and could she read any of them.

He was beginning to wonder if he’d given the right answer to the last.

Two books slipped off the pile on his back, and he hunched his wings up to keep any from following them, hissing. Grinning at his misfortune, Bell gathered them onto her (much, much smaller) pile, and tapped her foot on his soothingly. “Almost there now.”

Given that it was the third time she’d said that, it wasn’t as calming as she seemed to think it was. Even so, he huffed, keeping himself carefully still as he spoke. “You do realize that I probably have a better idea of where we are than you do.”

“Oh, undoubtably.” Another book slid off as he tried not to laugh, and she grinned unrepentantly at him as she retrieved it.

Another minute’s walking put them in the royal wing, and all of Thorin’s mirth drained away from him; if she noticed how on edge he was, she didn’t let on. Passing Frerin’s old room brought guilt, passing his own brought a stabbing heartache, he couldn’t bring himself to even look at the room his parents had shared, and every step closer to his grandfather’s chambers seemed harder to take. Bell offered him a few sympathetic looks, but didn’t slow her pace by much.

Some of his earliest memories were of trying to make his clothes and braids lie flat before he exited his private rooms, trying to eliminate any possible reason his grandfather could find fault with him, trying to find any and every way to coax out the increasingly-rare pride in his eyes. His excursions outside had been the only guilty pleasure he allowed himself, and had been the only reason he survived, in the end. But until the last few years before Smaug had come, his grandfather had insisted on weekly assessments in his private chambers, where every failing, every shortcoming, every defect in Thorin’s bearing, character, and behavior had been scrutinized with the same solemnity as an execution.

He hadn’t even realized that it had been strange until Frerin had confronted him for being too harsh on Dís, several years after Azanulbizar. He’d been appalled to hear what Thorin remembered of Erebor, and insisted that Thrór had only been distant to him and Dís, not critical as he had been of Thorin.

In the last decades, since the curse, Frerin had convinced him to talk to Balin, who remembered some of what Thrór had been like more completely than the younger Dwarves, and had never shown any judgement of him for needing to ask where the lines should be drawn. But even so, even standing before Thrór’s door brought those memories back, full-force; internally, he resolved to just give Bell the books and leave, no matter how she begged him to stay.

Then she opened the doors.

Feeling as awed as she’d looked to see the library, his jaw dropped. Thrór had always kept his suite spartan, preferring to keep all his treasures in the treasury, where he could keep track of them altogether, but now he barely even recognized the room.

The once-bare walls were covered almost entirely with tapestries, some light, some dark, but all depicting some outdoor scene or other (he recognized the starry night he’d seen Frerin carrying to her rooms some three weeks prior); the single desk and chair were there, but a large table had been added, along with well over a dozen chairs, enough for a Company and a half; two massive armchairs stood in front of the fire, one lavishly plush, the other only half-completed, the typical Dwarven, austere cushions still visible where she hadn’t finished sewing on the modified padding; on every surface in the room, including the floor, there were blankets, rugs, bits of fabric, bits of yarn, baskets of projects, and now she set her load of books on the nearest table.

All in all, his tension abruptly evaporated, and he felt a little light-headed as he laid abruptly down. As she took the books from him, he only had room for one thought. “When do you sleep?”

She snorted, apparently under the impression that he was joking; but with how many projects were around the room, and how many she’d evidently already completed, he truly wasn’t sure. “Thank you again for helping me bring these back here; I guess finding a bookshelf’ll have to be my next priority.” Setting down the last of the books, she grinned broadly at him, but a trace of uncertainty crept in a moment later. “Would you like to come in?”

For a moment, he didn’t understand the caution in her look; if she wasn’t sure why he was staying out, she’d just ask. Then he realized: Frerin must have told her. Not everything, of course, but enough for her to know that it was more likely than not that he would just turn on his heel and go. But she wouldn’t ask if she didn’t want him to. Hesitantly, he stood and moved forward; relief flooded from her almost tangibly, and she pulled the unfinished chair away from the fireplace, clearing a space for him before he’d even made it past the table. Realizing he still hadn’t said anything, he cleared his throat. “It’s different. It’s good, it’s…” A dozen words rushed forward; after an awkward pause, he settled on “…homey.”

If he were still a Dwarf, he’d have been glowing red, but she only beamed at him with even more relief, if that were possible. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but that may be the highest compliment you can give a Hobbit’s home.”

He chuckled as he laid down in front of the hearth. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” Her words sunk in a moment later, and he blinked at her as she sat beside him. “This… this is your home?”

She blinked at him, apparently as taken aback by the question as he was by the idea; pink bloomed over her cheeks and she ducked her head. “Well… it could be. I love Bard,” his heart gave an odd lurch, but she didn’t so much as slow, “and the Bardlings dearly, and I miss my father, of course, but in ten years, I never felt as comfortable in Lake-town as I do here.”

There was a slight break as she spoke, an almost-imperceptible hesitation before ‘comfortable’, that Thorin would never have noticed a month earlier. Now he heard it, but now they were past the first days of their… (friendship? Were they friends?) …relationship, whatever it was, when virtually nothing was taboo. Then, they hadn’t known each other well enough to care what the other thought of them. Now, now he cared what she thought, and he cared what she felt, and he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. So he only laid his head on his paws, a few feet from her, and promised softly, “Erebor will always be open to you, as long as you wish it.” Silently, he finished, _‘and I’m alive’_.

Eyes suspiciously bright, she only smiled gratefully at him; wiping her cheeks, she changed the subject transparently. “I was surprised when Frerin said these were the King’s chambers; from everything I heard about Dwarves in Lake-town, I would’ve expected the royal suites to be dripping with gold, but these were so plain they felt more like a mausoleum.”

 _‘Because they were’_ , he thought. It wasn’t until she blanched that he realized he’d said it aloud. “No, n— not literally.”

She relaxed marginally, but still frowned at him. “How, then?”

For a few moments, he wavered. But if she was telling the truth, if she truly wanted to stay in Erebor, if the curse broke and the Dwarves returned and she still stayed, she would need to know. It was only right that she know. He sighed. “Has Frerin told you anything of Thrór?”

“Only that he was the last King. I didn’t even know that he was his grandfather until you said so earlier.”

Nodding, Thorin took care to organize his thoughts, as well as to avoid any reference to his own relation to him. (A quiet corner of his mind wondered why it was so important to him that she not know who he truly was, but he forgot the question almost as quickly as it occurred to him.) As he did, she pulled over a pile of blankets, curled up in the middle, and wrapped up so that only her face was visible, watching him attentively. “Hundreds of years ago, Durin’s folk lived in the Grey Mountains.”

“Durin’s folk?”

He huffed wryly. “That’s part of a much larger discussion of Dwarven history. Suffice it to say, for now, that there are several royal and noble lineages among Dwarves; Durin’s line is only one of these, but it’s the most prestigious.” She nodded easily, and he resumed the tale as Balin had taught it to him. “Thrór’s father was King at the time, but his reign was cut short after only four years. A cold-drake slew him and his second son, Thrór’s younger brother. By all rights, Thrór should’ve never been crowned so young, but he was, at forty-eight. Grór was even younger, but he led some of Durin’s folk to the Iron Hills and established himself as King there. But most followed Thrór here.

“By all accounts, Thrór was a good King. He ruled wisely and justly for many years after becoming King Under the Mountain. And then the Arkenstone was discovered.”

“What’s that?” He blinked at her for a long moment; she only tilted her head curiously, entirely innocent of what, exactly, she was referring to.

Shifting uncomfortably, he hedged, “No one knows, exactly. It’s unlike any gem known to us. There is something…” He shook his head uneasily. “Something about it… something magical. I don’t know what it is, but whatever it is, it affects the Line of Durin more than any other that I’ve seen.

“But it’s beautiful beyond belief. It was uncovered the same day as Frerin’s father’s birth, Thrór’s son, and Thrór claimed it as a sign of Mahal’s blessing of his family’s rule, and proclaimed that from that day on, no King of Erebor could be officially recognized without it. That was the first sign, I think. Slowly, the wise and just King descended into madness and gold-lust. By the time Frerin was born, Thrór was a miserly madman, though the change had been so gradual that the few who could recognize it were all-too-aware of the consequences of saying so. He hoarded gold as avariciously as a dragon, and believe me, that isn’t an overstatement.”

Disgusted, he had to consciously check the low growl and matching heat building in his chest. “I’m well aware of what Men think of us, but they are wrong.” Sighing, he subsided. “Usually. The Men of Lake-town, particularly, likely think that Thrór was no different from any Dwarf. But his greed wasn’t natural. Dwarves—” Biting his tongue, he forced himself to slow and explain properly. “You know of Elves’ love of starlight?”

Nodding, she scrunched up her nose. “Heard of it almost constantly for the few weeks before we reached Lake-town.” He raised a brow at her obvious distaste, and she shrugged. “It got old after the first hundred times they talked about the stars.”

Despite the heaviness in his chest, he had to smile at that, if only weakly. “Well, as Elves love the stars, Dwarves love the treasures of the Earth. It isn’t about value. It’s the shine and the purity and the color. It’s the weight of it in our beards and our clothes, the satisfaction of knowing that we hewed it from the stone, or cut it to shine with all the luster that was hidden within it, or set it in silver or gold to be a work of art any race would admire. Granted, the fact that the other races value such things highly enough to pay us for our pieces does give a certain security in owning enough to be comfortable, but Dwarven greed is for security, not for wealth in and of itself. Or it should be.

“Thrór began slowly, according to the records, but by Dís’ birth, he didn’t care about anything but the gold to even see her until Thráin brought her to him some weeks later. And— We aren’t like Men and Elves. They have as many women as men, and maybe Hobbits do, too, you’d know better than I. We have twice as many men as women, and few enough children at all that any birth is cause for celebration, and a girl’s birth, and especially a Princess’, is enough to warrant a full day of festivities. Thrór should have led the revels, but instead, he stayed in the treasury, with his gold.”

His voice shook more and more as he spoke, and as he paused, Bell stood, the top blanket still around her shoulders, and moved to sit against his side, in her usual spot; she said nothing, but her eyes were shining sympathetically as she leaned against him. Gathering his breath shakily, he took a moment to treasure the feeling of her weight against him.

“And with his greed grew his paranoia. These rooms are so plain because he was convinced that the only way to protect his gold was to keep it all in one place, in the treasury. By the end, he barely ate or slept, only wandered around the treasury at all hours, counting his gold. And because of his greed, Smaug came. Barely a tenth of Erebor survived the attack. Of those, another quarter died before we reached Dunland, and only a third of those returned from Azanulbizar.”

He sighed again, and indulged the urge to coil around her; if he’d been a Dwarf, he’d have buried his face in her hair, but that was impossible, of course. “We went to war. Thrór set his mind on reclaiming Moria, but there were more Orcs than we’d ever imagined. Dwarves from the other six Lines fought with us, but even so, the Orcs had greater numbers. And after six long years of war, all that came of it was that m—” He barely stopped before he let his parentage slip, and tried to hide his near-miss by taking a shuddering breath, not needing any deception to let his grief show; he wasn’t sure how successful he was, though. “Nearly my entire family fell in that battle, and King Thrór was slain. Thráin went mad with grief and fled. No one’s seen him since. Frerin wasn’t killed, by the grace of Eru, but he was injured, and spent months recovering before he could even sit on his own, let alone walk.”

His voice broke, and he stopped; she laid her palm on his side, but that was all. That was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sad chapter, I know. I'd say the next is happier, but that would be a lie.  
> À bientôt!  
> (P.S., [https://sd.keepcalm-o-matic.co.uk/i/marry-that-beast-and-get-that-library.png])


	20. June 21, 2934, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> …To have someone understand…

Bell couldn’t breathe. Everywhere she looked, there was nothing but death and pain, a riot of agony and screaming. In every direction, there were Dwarves fighting, bleeding, dying, and Orcs doing the same, but with nothing but evil in their eyes, where the Dwarves had grief, or rage, or fear.

A shuddering sob tore from her throat; a familiar dark head of hair whipped around a few yards ahead of her, but she could barely even notice Thorin when there was so much suffering around her. “Thi— this is— war?”

Thorin caught her as her knees buckled, but even as he spoke, she couldn’t focus on him. “Bell, you—”

A blond Dwarf caught her eye, blood pouring from a cut above his left eye as he fought, but even she could see that he was fading. But what caught her eye wasn’t his fatigue, but his age; he barely looked out of his tweens. Only finding more slaughter wherever she looked, she couldn’t fight the sobs that wracked her. “Why— Why? Why would anyone— Who could love this?”

Muttering curses under his breath, he pulled her close, leaning his head so that his hair hid the scene around them. “I’m sorry, Bell, you shouldn’t have had to see this—”

Pushing back to look him in the eye, she realized he barely looked older than the blond, but his words held her attention. “You— This is your nightmare, isn’t it? This— this is what you see when y— you sleep alone?”

He grimaced, but didn’t rebut it; slipping her hands into his hair, she pulled him down to lean his forehead against hers, despite the blood and mud that covered him. His eyes fell closed as hers did, and she knew that not all the tears that spilled over her cheeks were her own. Slowly, the sounds of battle around them faded away, and the two of them stood in silence for long minutes before she opened her eyes again and carded her fingers through his hair. Shuddering, he looked at her, eyes shining; heart aching, she could only cup his cheek, wishing she could bear the pain for him.

Closing his eyes, he leaned into her hand, and she spoke without really meaning to. “Help me understand.”

Face contorted into a mask of pain, he shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to, Bell. This isn’t your world.”

Shaking her head faintly, she brought her other hand down so that she was cradling his face. “You have to.” He stilled, a few stray tears spilling as he opened his eyes. “You can’t choose not to face this, so why should I? How could I leave you to face this alone?” Wiping the tears from his cheeks, she shook her head more decisively. “You’re right, this isn’t my world. Hobbits weren’t made for suffering like this. But I don’t think anyone was. I don’t doubt that you could endure a hundred times the adversity a Hobbit could, but that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone. Let me take some of the weight, Thorin. No one should carry this much.”

Still more tears falling as he shuddered again, he covered her hand with his, closing his eyes for a long moment before he opened them again and nodded. “This day. No more.”

For the time being, she agreed; they could discuss it later. Stretching up on her toes, she brushed a kiss over his lips and swiped her thumbs over his cheeks one last time before dropping down again and tucking herself under his arm; he kept hold of the hand he held, so she simply wrapped the other around his back in a half-hug. “This is Azanulbizar?”

He nodded, swallowing thickly. “The last day of the war. After six years, we were finally in sight of the Dimrill Gate.” He gestured half-heartedly toward the mountain, past a massive Orc, paler than the rest. With a start, she realized that the world around them was frozen, silent and still. Even the blood arcing through the air was motionless. As she watched, the world eased into movement again, but still a fraction of the speed of reality, and still nearly silent. The pale Orc lifted something into the air; her stomach lurched as she realized it was a head. “My grandfather Thrór was slain.”

His voice shook; she tightened her grip on him. “You’ve been holding out on me, your Highness.”

An exhale that could’ve been a laugh and could’ve been a sob puffed out of him, and he squeezed her hand lightly. “Don’t know why, to be honest. And I’ve never hidden it in the dreams, I just never said it outright.”

Smiling sadly, she tugged on his hand so she could kiss his palm. “I know. I’d mostly figured it out, anyway.”

The pale Orc tossed the head down as though it were nothing but a moldy cabbage, and Thorin jerked reflexively forward; he didn’t actually pull away from her, but she held herself ready to let go if he needed space. “I wanted to avenge him, but my father…” A shorter, grey-haired Dwarf rushed sluggishly forward, and Thorin lurched to meet him; she let him go. “He was afraid to lose any more family. He stopped me.”

The Dwarf, Thráin, spoke as though he were drunk, everything, including him, still moving far more slowly than they rightly should. Something caught her attention, she couldn’t say what, and she turned to see that the blond was staring at Thrór’s head with the same horror and grief as Thorin had; something moved behind him, and she realized that his distraction was giving an Orc an opening. The Orc was leveling a downward strike at the junction of his shoulder and neck, aiming to cripple first. A killing blow would likely follow, and the blond wouldn’t be able to defend himself. She moved to him without really being aware of it, and as she sometimes had with Thorin, followed an instinct she didn’t understand.

She pulled on the Orc’s arm, bracing herself against the blond’s leg.

It was like trying to haul a tree backward, but somehow she managed to pull the strike far enough to the side that it would glance off the armor on his arm. She hoped.

She had no idea how she’d managed it, but she was sure that she couldn’t do any more. But she’d done something. It didn’t really matter, since it was only a dream, but she could delude herself that she’d done some good. It was better than just watching him die, at least.

There was something familiar about his face, but she returned to Thorin’s side as his father ran off; he didn’t seem to even notice that she’d been gone, only wrapped an arm around her as she leaned against his side again. “He led a charge on the Dimrill Gate. He never returned.”

His voice cracked; she leaned her head against his side, wishing she could do more. “And then?”

He took a shuddering breath. “Soon enough, I couldn’t stand back any longer. I faced Azog,” he gestured to the pale Orc, “with nothing more than an oaken branch for a shield and a sword pilfered from a fallen Dwarf nearby. I took his arm,” the scene changed abruptly to the pale Orc, Azog, standing in front of them as blood spurted from his newly-severed stump of an arm, stumbling back as he grasped futilely at the wound, “and Daín took his head.”

A red-headed Dwarf leapt from a nearby boulder with a war-cry, swinging a massive axe at the now-kneeling Orc as he did. Turning her face into Thorin’s side, she closed her eyes rather than see the monster’s death, but opened them again when he squeezed her side lightly. The red-head stood frozen just in front of them, blocking the corpse from sight; she couldn’t help her exclamation. “Sweet Eru, how old is he?!?” Thorin barked out a laugh; she jabbed him in the side. “I’m serious! He doesn’t even have a beard!”

As young as Thorin and the blond looked, they still had decent beards by Men’s standards, but the red-head wouldn’t have stood out from any group of tweens. To her dismay, Thorin nodded. “He’s thirty-two.” Horrorstruck, she couldn’t speak. “He wasn’t meant to be here. He snuck after his father and joined the fighting without anyone realizing.” She squeaked; he seemed to catch her meaning. “He wore a full helm at first; no one could see his face.”

The scene changed again, until there was hardly any movement though what did move was at a natural speed. “What happened?”

Before he answered, he staggered to a nearby outcropping of rock and slumped down with his back against it; she assessed him for a moment, then dropped lightly onto his lap, looping one arm around his neck and slipping her free hand into his tunic to rest over his heart. As she’d half-expected, he curled around her with a shudder, burying his face in her hair. Patiently, she waited for him to gather himself again, and after a few minutes he drew back a fraction; it wasn’t as though she minded the delay, since she found it as comforting as he did.

Hobbits weren’t made for war.

But eventually, he composed himself. “Once Azog was dead, the Orcs splintered apart. I led the charge, and we defeated them. But it was a pyrrhic victory.” A sob shook in his chest, but he held it back; looking over the scene again, and seeing the sheer number of dead, Dwarves and Orcs alike, she barely held back a sob of her own, and didn’t fight the blur that encroached on her vision. “Entire families fell, or left behind wives or children too young for battle or work. It wasn’t worth this. Nothing could be worth this.”

As he finally broke down, she shifted in his lap so that she was holding him as much as he was holding her, and she just held him as he sobbed. What tears burned her eyes were blinked away, and what sobs threatened to break through were swallowed harshly back. This was Thorin’s memory, Thorin’s grief, Thorin’s time to mourn. She wouldn’t intrude. There’d be time for her later.

Besides which, if she knew him at all, he’d insist on checking if she was alright after all this.

Bell stirred reluctantly; her dreams had been oddly melancholy, but even so, she didn’t want to wake yet. But then her pillow moved, if slowly, and she didn’t have a choice. Lethargically rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she frowned blearily at Diarmait. “What’re you doin’?”

He startled slightly, just enough to jostle her, then stilled. “I meant to let you sleep.”

Still sleep-fogged, she couldn’t make sense of his words until he moved to stand. “Where’re you goin’?”

Stilling, half-propped up on a forepaw, he tipped his head to one side; she felt as though she’d should’ve been able to guess at his thoughts, but she was far too tired. “It’s early; you can sleep awhile longer.”

“Oh.” That made sense. Sort of. So she couldn’t really argue. That didn’t stop her from catching hold of his tail as he left, though; he turned to look at her, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “Last night, you asked when I sleep.”

He shook his head with a wince. “Bell—”

“I don’t.” Even his tail froze; she didn’t let herself wait for a response. “Not much. Except— I don’t want to go back to Lake-town. I don’t. But here, it’s cold, and dark, and there’s no sound at all, and I just— But when—” Cheeks heating, she forced herself to stop and choose her words more carefully. “Before we were stuck in the pit, I don’t think I’d had a full night’s sleep in years. Since we got back…” She shook her head. “I don’t dream, I think, but I can’t sleep for longer than a few hours at a time unless…”

Self-conscious, she trailed off; to her surprise, his tail tentatively curled around her as it had the day before. Quietly, he murmured, “Nor me.”

That came as a bit of a surprise, just enough of one to break through her mortification; she met his eyes shyly, somewhat relieved to see the same shyness in his expression, though he was trying to hide it. “Then that decides it.” He tilted his head, confused; she smiled. “We never did come to a conclusion yesterday; I still think raspberries are the best kind.”

He snorted. “It’s blueberries and you know it.”

Scrunching up her nose, she shook her head. “Nope. Raspberries. I’ll just have to convince you tonight.”

For a moment, she wasn’t sure he’d catch her meaning. But after a moment of obvious surprise, his expression eased into something like fond awe. “Tonight, then.”

 

When she eventually found whatever woman was singing, she was going to strangle her. Granted, she loved _An Glór_ , but any song grew stale after more than a month of listening to it. To be fair, she’d only realized that was what she was hearing a fortnight earlier, but even so, she was more than ready to reach whatever or whoever was singing.

And she wished she could leave herself messages, or remember this nothing-world when she was awake; it was growing obvious that she only had these dreams when she didn’t sleep in physical contact with Thorin, and she much preferred dreaming with him to dreaming of this.

There was something about it, though. It was irritating, but in the sort of way that made her want to know more, not less. There was nothing for it but to keep moving. Maybe one of these nights, she’d actually find something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... did I do it justice? Not? Meh? *shrugs* Well, I can hope, at least.   
> Sorry it's short, but at least it ends on a good note.   
> Also, 'An Glor' (if Google translate has not failed me) means 'The Voice'. I write listening to Celtic Woman a lot.  
> À bientôt!


	21. July 8, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever just the same, ever a surprise.

Frerin bit back chuckles as Bell and Thorin walked past, below him. His viewing spot on the roof of a market-stall meant that he wasn’t exactly easy to see, but he suspected that they wouldn’t have seen him even if he’d been standing in front of them. “What are they talking about, anyway?”

Ori hummed quietly. “I don’t know. Hang on.” With that, she hopped off the ledge. Gliding gracefully, she circled over their heads once, then drifted back to where he sat; she hadn’t lost enough height to put her out of his reach, and he extended his arm in case she wanted the help. She didn’t always. Sometimes she preferred to handle it herself, but she always appreciated the offer.

But now, she landed lightly on his hand; he curled his fingers loosely around her and brought her back up to the roof. “So have they finished the Great Shape Debate yet?”

She giggled and floated down to sit beside him. “Not yet. Now he’s saying that squares’ ‘unnaturalness’ should count in their favor, since it discourages people from thinking they can attack; she’s still saying the entire point is that people never realize anyone’s there to attack.”

Covering his face with a hand, he just wished he could roll his eyes. “Honestly, can they just admit it doesn’t matter? He’d carve out all the circles she wanted if he could.”

She nodded. “And she’d live here, circles or not.” They were silent for a few moments, watching the Hobbit and dragon walk out of sight. Fifty years of friendship had been more than enough for the Company to learn the others’ tones, so he could hear the smile in her voice clearly. “She’s good for him. She doesn’t take him seriously.”

He hummed noncommittally. “I think she can tell when to and when not to.” Ori bobbed from side to side. “I think he makes an effort not to be serious around her.”

She laughed. “Takes some doing, too!” He couldn’t argue that if he tried, and they only laughed for a few moments.

He loved this. Loved spending time with her, talking with her, laughing with her. He’d barely paid her any mind on the journey, had barely even noticed her until he’d been working to clear a caved-in corridor a year or so after the curse. He’d come to a standstill as the blockage threatened to unbalance completely; Ori had been the only one small and springy enough to slip through the spaces between debris and get a look at the other side. He’d realized he barely knew her and made an effort to strike up conversation, only to find that it was surprisingly easy to talk to her.

Over the years, he’d found himself spending more and more time with her, and when he wasn’t with her, he was thinking of her. She was brilliant, and brave, and as cunning as her sister, even if she was better at playing innocent than either of her sisters suspected. He couldn’t imagine living without her.

Granted, he couldn’t properly imagine marrying her; after fifty years of knowing her as an anthropomorphic feather, when he tried to remember what she’d looked like before, he could only recall a vague impression of reddish hair and shyness. It didn’t really matter anyhow, though. She could look like a Elf and he’d still marry her gladly. And if she didn’t want to marry him, he’d be content with her friendship.

There’d never be another, for him. He did wish that he’d realized she was his One before the curse, but then, he would’ve gone about everything differently if he’d known. He would’ve rushed into courting her, marrying her. As things happened, they’d been friends (best friends, if he was honest with himself) for over thirty years before he realized he loved her, and it had been another decade before he’d realized just how much she was to him.

He hadn’t said anything to her, though. She wasn’t Nori, wasn’t the sort to throw herself into such things, wouldn’t be his One if she were. Her ability to adapt to surprises was second only to Bofur’s, but she preferred to take things slowly, he knew. When the curse was broken, if it ever was, he’d tell her how he felt. He couldn’t before then, not when he had nothing to offer her, not when nothing could happen anyway. No, he’d tell her when the curse was broken, and from there it would be her decision.

If she wanted nothing more to do with him, it would break his heart, but he’d keep his distance. If she wanted his friendship and nothing more, he’d be happy to still have her friendship in return. If she returned his feelings…

If he’d been a Dwarf, he’d have been grinning widely enough to be painful, and have been hard-pressed to hide it. If she loved him back, he’d be the happiest Dwarf on Arda. He’d go as quickly or slowly as she wanted, as long as he knew she loved him.

He’d move Heaven and Earth for her, if she asked it.

He just wished he could do the one thing he knew she wanted more than anything.

Before Bell had come, it had been getting harder and harder to move. Not as much for Ori, Dori, and Gandalf, those of the Company without moving parts, but for him and the rest, it was something like he imagined arthritis would feel like. It had been better lately, though.

Later, he’d almost forgotten his earlier thoughts as he walked with Bell. “Really, he said that?”

She laughed quietly. “Is it true?”

Remembering the times he’d run across Orcs since Azanulbizar, he nodded easily enough. “True enough. Mahal, believe me, the best thing about this bloody curse is we don’t have scars like this; I came out of that bloody battle with a broken leg, never quite set straight.”

“Diarmait didn’t say anything about that.” She looked worried, he realized; as gently as he could, he patted her arm.

“A broken leg’s not as bad as a broken neck; long as I’m alive to complain about it, is it really that bad?” Brow still furrowed faintly, she bobbed her head to the side. “Besides, that break saved my life.”

Her brows shot up. “Oh?”

He nodded, remembering that day. “I still don’t understand how it happened, but something broke my leg out of the blue. There was no movement, no sound, I didn’t feel a thing, just one second, fine, a second later, my leg won’t hold me and I’m falling over. But at the same time that my leg broke, an Orc nearly got the drop on me. Could’ve cut my head off, but instead it went for my arm, for some reason. I just barely had time to gut it before it could try again, and if it hadn’t been for my leg…” Glancing to the side, he trailed off. “You all right?”

She wore the oddest expression: half-recognition, half-disbelief, and utterly bewildered. At the question, she startled slightly, blinking rapidly for a moment before the recognition faded. “Ye— Yeah. I thought it sounded familiar for a moment, that’s all.”

He couldn’t help a disbelieving scoff. “Where would you have heard something like that?”

As soon as the question left him, he wished he could take it back, but thankfully, she only smiled. “Exactly. I must have mixed it up with something Diarmait said, that’s all.”

He hummed. “Or Dwalin.”

The slight brittleness of her smile vanished as thought it had never been there. “He does talk about things like that awfully often, doesn’t he?”

Smiling internally, he nodded. “I think he misses being a Dwarf.”

For a few moments, she didn’t respond. “You all do, don’t you?”

Sighing heavily, he nodded again. “Sooner the curse is broken, the better.” For a moment, she looked as though she were about to say something, but they came across Bofur and Nori just then, and the previous conversation was quickly forgotten.

On Frerin’s part, anyway.

 

“Is there a way to break the curse?”

Thorin blinked at her, his mind caught in the dream for a moment; they were in one of the banquet halls, evidently in the middle of a massive celebration of… something or other. It wasn’t an official feast day, clearly: Bell was dressed somewhere between the formal outfits she wore for official business and the outfits she seemed to prefer in more casual settings. From a distance, she’d blend into the crowd of similarly dressed Dwarrowdams, but as close to her as Thorin was, he could tell there was something… different about it. Nothing that he could put his finger on, just something about the overall detail that drew his eye like a diamond in a plate of quartz.

He himself wore semi-formal dress, with his crown but without his seal, so he supposed it was likely a birthday celebration or somesuch, probably in the royal family. Sapphire and emerald chip-flowers bloomed over her temples and cheeks, copper vines snaking between them, along with one blossom on each side made of the same Arkenstone-type material as the crown she wasn’t wearing in this dream.

Remembering her question, he felt heat pool in his cheeks. “Why do you ask?”

Brow furrowed, she tilted her head to one side. “Why are you embarrassed? Frerin brought it up today when we were talking. In the pit, you said there wasn’t a cure, but Frerin seemed sure there was.” She snorted. “Granted, I never got the chance to ask what it was, but still, it only leaves two possibilities: you lied to me or you lied to Frerin, and as sure as I am you’d never lie to me, it’s more likely than you lying to him.”

Raucous laughter broke the mood, along with cheers; he couldn’t see what the cause was, but he had a decent guess. Growling out a sigh, he focused on the quietest memory he could think of: a night when he was twenty one, when he’d snuck out of the mountain to watch a shower of falling stars Balin had told him would be coming. For a heartbeat, he stood eye-level with her chin, before the woman from the celebration was replaced with a girl his age, in the dress from her seventeenth birthday party, if he remembered right.

It was getting easier to guess at her age, to make the connections between what age he was and what she told him she was; it wasn’t easy, by any means, but the disconnect between what he knew it was and what he thought it should be was easing, bit by bit.

They laid on the hillside and watched the stars fall for a few moments; she didn’t protest when he pulled her down to lay at his side, even scooted closer than he’d intended. The motion was reminiscent of how she behaved around him in the waking world, and a quiet, tender warmth pulsed in his chest; he couldn’t name it, didn’t truly wish to try, for fear of somehow shattering the fragile peace they’d found after a month (or thereabouts) of vacillating between staying out of arms’ reach and throwing themselves at each other. But it was the same feeling he had in the waking world. It was easier to notice like this, when he could (and now did) wrap an arm around her and lace his free hand in hers, but it was no different.

It was, however, extremely different to the all-consuming blaze that came over him when the dreams began with the two of them in… tempting, for lack of a better word, positions. Though, that wasn’t quite true. It was different, but no matter how he blazed for her, the tenderness was always pulsing underneath it, pulling him to think of her before himself, always.

Maybe he could name it.

But it was stronger now than it had been when the dreams first started; he was only just beginning to notice it in the waking world, but although it had always been there in the dreams, the more it strengthened when they were awake, the stronger it was in the dreams. The more it grew, the more sure he was that the time was coming when he wouldn’t be able to stop it at all, and that his only hope was to stop it now, but there was only one way to do that.

To send her away.

He could.

He should.

But she was his treasure, and he couldn’t.

He was too greedy.

He sighed. “Frerin was right.”

She stiffened for a moment, but he didn’t look away from the stars; after a few moments, she squeezed his hand lightly. “So there is a cure.”

“I tried to tell you.” It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, he knew, but he couldn’t bear the thought that she thought he’d wanted to lie to her. “I did, but I couldn’t. The curse wouldn’t let me.”

Stilling, she turned her head to look up at him; he met her gaze, concerned by the disquiet he saw there. “If the curse wouldn’t let you then, will it now? I’d assumed these dreams are because of the curse.”

The thought hadn’t occurred to him; it was possible, but was it likely? The curse seemed determined (or as determined as something without a mind could be) to keep from being broken. What could the dreams do but make it more likely that she would break it? That in mind, he shook his head. “I don’t know that they are.”

She hummed lowly. “I suppose if you can tell me the cure now, that proves that the dreams aren’t because of the curse.”

He didn’t need more of a hint than that. “We have to fall in love.”

They just blinked at each other for a few moments. He... hadn't actually expected that to work. Slowly, a rosy flush crept over her cheeks. “We… what?”

He swallowed, feeling a matching flush spread over him. “Well, th— Gandalf says that the curse has t— can only be broken by love, and since I lo— Frerin’s here, and Balin and Dwalin, and none of the others are family like those three are, but I still— they’re my Company, we’ve fought together, they— so it can’t be familial or friendly love, it— it must— must—”

A tiny hand covered his mouth, stopping his babble; even when they were children, she was petite compared to him, but he couldn’t imagine her any other way. She was still rosy in the starlight, but she held his eyes steadily, though he could tell it took an effort on her part. “It has to be ro— romantic.”

He nodded jerkily, relieved that she understood so quickly; he wasn’t sure he actually could have said it on his own. “And reciprocated.”

Her brow furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Because I love you.”

He slapped a hand over his mouth so quickly that it hurt, but he couldn’t take back the words any more than he could believe he just said them.

Out loud.

To her.

Mandos have mercy.

She was frozen, still staring at him, her mouth open slightly. For a moment, he couldn’t think of anything but how grateful he was that he’d (accidentally) said it while they were both children; if they’d been adults, if they’d still been at the party, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from kissing her. Slowly, so, so slowly, her shock melted into a hesitant shyness he wouldn’t have expected from her. “You… are you sure?”

For a mad instant, he wanted to laugh: ‘was he sure’ that she’d become the center of his world in the dreams and out? ‘Was he sure’ that in nearly a hundred and ninety years of life, he’d never felt such a way about anyone? ‘Was he sure’ that he couldn’t bear to live without her, that there was no greater joy in his life but to spend it like this, with her? ‘Was he sure’ that though the Heart of the Mountain had called her, she’d stolen his heart instead?

No, he wasn’t sure about the last. He wasn’t sure whether she’d stolen it or he’d given it to her.

But he managed to contain himself. “I’m sure, Bell.” The hesitance didn’t leave her eyes, and he propped himself on an elbow, cupping her cheek clumsily. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes shone, and for the first time he was aware of, she lied to him, or at least didn’t tell him the full truth. “Nothing. I’m not sure I can say it back yet, that’s all.”

She was lying. She was lying to him, and it hurt. It felt like he’d been kicked in the chest, but if he knew her at all, he knew that she had a reason for it. He knew she’d tell him when she was ready. So he smiled sadly, and he nodded, and he let the lie pass. “Do you want to see the royal forge?”

Sniffling, she nodded, and they returned to their routine.

 

She scowled, wiping her eyes. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be with Thorin, no matter how much it hurt. And right now, the singing was worse than being around Thorin could ever be, no matter how much he loved her, no matter how much she wished she could say the same.

No.

Closing her eyes, she willed herself to wake. It wasn’t likely to work, but a slim chance was still a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first of all, did anyone forget that Ori was a feather for the first few paragraphs? I was going back and forth on whether or not to add that in and decided not to, but I can edit it if I need to.  
> Second, AAAAANGSTT AND DRAAAMAAAA AND MORE AAAANGGGSSSTTTTT!  
> Yes, there will be an explanation for why she reacted like that.  
> Also, a twenty-one-year-old Dwarf and a seventeen-year-old Hobbit would both be roughly eleven if they were human.  
> If anyone is interested in a fem!Bilbo/Kíli story with heavy parental!Dwalin and also angst, first chapter goes up tomorrow, then every day for a week, and then... I don't know. We'll see.   
> So, à bientôt!


	22. July 13, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s nothing like the rest of us, yes, different from the rest of us is Bell!

Óin grumbled something under his breath, pestle rattling. Glóin puffed out a laugh, glancing at the scene he knew held his brother’s attention.

Bell sat at a low table in the center of the room, entire focus on Balin, laid out before her. Bofur stood on the table, candles brighter than usual to help her see; occasionally, she directed him to move one stub-candle or the other, but that was the most she spoke. Bifur, though, across from her, gave comments every so often, translated by Bofur, offering suggestions for something or other that Glóin didn’t understand. He was a fire-tender, not a tinker.

After two and a half months of living in Erebor, she’d finally come up with an idea for a more permanent repair for Balin; she had the plans beside her now, and glanced at them often. She’d enlisted most of the Company in the project, though. Frerin had brought in the table, Ori’d helped draw up the diagram, Gandalf was helping her with the fiddlier bits when she needed it, as was Nori, and she’d asked all the Company’s opinions when she first finished the plans; not many of them had the experience to offer anything useful, but she’d asked anyway.

Óin, though… “You’re being too hard on her.”

The pestle rattled as Óin snorted. “DON’T SEE WHY YOU’RE ALL SO STUCK ON HER, THAT’S ALL. SHE’S NOTHING SPECIAL.”

Glóin had to laugh at that, remembering him saying something similar about Lemli a hundred years or so earlier. “You know many who’d do what she’s done? Besides, no one’s saying she’s an angel of mercy; it’s just nice to have someone new around.”

And if he was honest, she reminded him of his Lemli. Not in looks, of course, or even really in personality, but the both of them were the sort to do what needs doing and not split hairs about it. Some days, just hearing her directing the others in whatever project she’d found for the week was enough to stir up a pining for his wife fierce enough that he’d have been bawling if he could. Others, it was a comfort to think of her. And then at times, Bell did or said something so unDwarfish that it was impossible to think of her as anything but utterly herself.

And if he was truly honest, one of the core reasons that he was growing so fond of her was that she often talked with him about his family, indulging him when he wanted to imagine Gimli as he was now, distracting him with stories of the bairns she’d raised in Lake-town when he wanted to think of anything else. Not always, not every time, it wasn’t as though he was the only one of the Company she talked with, but often.

And another reason was that when she spoke of her bairns, he recognized the pain in her eyes. They may not have been hers in blood, but she loved them, it was obvious. She’d left behind her children as much as he had.

And at times, he couldn’t help but be jealous that she’d had ten years with hers when he’d only had three with his.

She sat up with a satisfied sigh, and a moment later, so did Balin. As those of the Company around her chattered, and as she turned pink, then red as compliments to her work dotted the prattle, Glóin nudged his brother. “Can’t complain about her handiwork, though, can you?”

Óin grunted. “NO, NO I CAN’T. FINE HEALER, AND WELL-TAUGHT. BETTER THAN I’D EXPECT FROM A HALFLING.”

A flurry of movement was all Glóin saw before the Company settled enough for him to see that Bell had fallen over somehow, nearly onto Bofur’s flames before he moved; Dwalin had been knocked onto his side, and Balin pulled him upright again by using Bell’s suspiciously-close foot for leverage; all of them were squawking away, demanding answers; her expression, though, that silenced them all. Her face was nearly bloodless, her eyes huge and hurt and fixed on Óin.

Her mouth opened and closed twice before she closed her eyes, shook her head, and looked to Gandalf beside her. “I— Explain. Please. I’m not— They don’t know. Explain it.”

With that, she darted out of the room; Bofur, Bifur, and Frerin started to go after her, but the wizard called them sharply back. “If she had wished to explain herself, she’d have done so before she left. This is information you need immediately.”

Balin glanced guardedly at his brother and Frerin. “‘Information’ meaning…”

More darkly than Glóin had ever heard him, Gandalf snapped, “Meaning that if she had not specifically said she understands that none of you could know the meaning of that word, this conversation would be far more pointed.” The threat in his tone was obvious, and Glóin wasn’t the only one in the room to shuffle unconsciously away from the wizard; the curse barred him from using his magic, but as they’d learned over the decades, even a magic-less wizard was far from powerless. Even the room seemed to darken with his threat.

Seeing their unease, Gandalf relaxed his tone a fraction, though not completely, by any means. “She was right, of course; with how little any of you have interacted with Hobbits, you couldn’t possibly know, and so in this instance, it is forgivable. The next,” Glóin leaned away from Tharkûn’s hiss until he was in danger of tipping over, “will not be.”

Somewhat hesitantly, Bofur cleared his throat. “You still haven’t told us what word you’re referring to.”

Gandalf paused before responding; the way he swayed made Glóin think that he was glancing at the doorway. When he spoke, his voice was half as loud as it had been. “To ‘halfling’. Hobbits do not refer to themselves as such, and consider it a grave insult at best. For one Hobbit to call another by that term is to mean that the subject is less than the speaker in one way or another, whether through injury or an innate deficit of body or character. Most commonly, it is used in reference to infertility, whether proven or only rumored.”

“What?!” Everyone looked sharply at Ori, who quailed somewhat, but rallied. “Why would that be an insult, and why would a rumor be…”

She trailed off meekly, but Gandalf only swayed, shaking his head the only way he, Ori, and Bifur could. “No need to be afraid, my dear. I’d forgotten the differences between your races. Hobbits are more fragile than the other races, particularly Dwarves; less able to defend themselves, and when they were made, their fragility was balanced by giving them much larger families than the others. So to answer your question, Ori, barrenness is something almost unheard of among Hobbits, and often feared to be contagious. For a Hobbit to imply such about another is to imply that the other is half a person.”

His voice sharpened again, brooking no argument. “Which is a similar reason to why it is a word none of you will ever use again. For a Hobbit to use it is for it to be an insult. For a Tall Person, or, given your strength, a Dwarf to use it is for it to be a threat.”

A chorus of shocked exclamations rang out; Nori sounded hurt. “But she knows we’d never hurt her.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Glóin wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the wizard sound so exasperated. “It wouldn’t matter if you’d spent years proving that you’d never hurt her; as soon as you used that word, the only possible explanation in her mind would be that she’d been wrong about you, or that you’d changed your mind, or that you were finally showing your true colors, whichever was the most reasonable explanation for why you’d just called her a plaything.”

“A what?!” Glóin wasn’t actually sure who’d spoken, as it had been at least half a dozen voices at once; he might have done the same, if he hadn’t been too shocked to speak.

Grimly, Gandalf swayed again. “Hobbits have memories as long as Dwarves’, when it matters. There was a time, long ago, and yet not long at all, when that was all Hobbits were thought to be. They are naïve in some things, now, but one of few things they have never let themselves forget is how easily they could be made to return to that status in the hands of those who love evil. And if there is one thing that Hobbits understand better than any other race, it is that evil does not always look as such. Evil comes in many forms, a fair number of which are indistinguishable from good until their actions prove them to be one or the other.

“She does not want to think that you could mean her harm, no Hobbit does. But this will have shaken her trust in you all. The first step to regaining that trust and setting her fears to rest will be to swear to her that none of you will ever. use. that. word. again.”

Silence rang in the room, especially profound as there were none present who actually breathed. Internally, Glóin resolved to speak to her as soon as she returned.

From…

Where had she gone?

 

 

 

Thorin was surprised he’d managed to fall asleep at all, given how worried he’d been for Bell; he was starting to think that whatever was giving them the dreams also had a way to ensure that they fell asleep together as often as possible. That was the only explanation he could think of, given that he’d been (subtly) frantic to make her happy and make sure she knew she was safe (and for the love of Nienna, to find whatever combination of words and gifts and comforts would make her stop crying and stop looking so sad and scared and heartrendingly inconsolable), and now he stood on a salt- and fish-soaked dock, surrounded by Men. It was easy enough to recognize Lake-town, but the people…

The chaos around him was unlike anything he’d seen in a Mannish village, and for a few instants, it almost seemed that they were larger than Men should be, and that their faces were distorted somehow. But within a few seconds, the scene was typical enough, albeit with a pervasive miasma of… something. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t even point to a single man and identify what it was in his face that he was seeing, but he found himself tensing for a fight, knuckles white on the hilt of his sword.

He needed to find Bell. This was obviously a dream, and it certainly wasn’t his. She was here. And, going by the general atmosphere, it wasn’t a good dream. Or was it a memory?

It didn’t matter. He needed to find her. The unease he felt on his own behalf was tempered by the fact that he was stronger than any Man and had his sword with him. She had neither, and every time his heart thudded in his chest, every heartbeat that passed without knowing she was safe, his unease grew.

Especially once he considered the fact that he had his sword. That hadn’t been his decision; he’d had it before he had a chance to think of changing anything, not that he could, since for whatever reason, he couldn’t take them both to one of his own memories, or even change his own appearance, let alone anything about the town or its people. He hadn’t summoned the sword, and he never wore a weapon at the beginnings of the dreams.

Which meant that he had a sword either because Bell consciously gave it to him, or because some part of her, whatever it was that wove dreams together, wanted him to be armed.

He needed to find her.

Glowering at the Men milling around, he forced himself to actually think. He had over a century and a half of experience in battle, war, hunting, et cetera; if he couldn’t find her, he didn’t deserve to call himself any sort of king.

He wasn’t the center of attention, by any means; it seemed more as if the Men couldn’t see him at all. They could, of course, no one was walking into or over him, but they never even looked at him as they gave him a fair-sized berth. Some of them, at least, seemed to be milling around an area to his left, but he recognized that as the marketplace, so it was unlikely that she’d be there.

Where would she be? If she had any amount of control over the dream (he’d had a tiny amount in his nightmare four days prior, so it seemed likely she’d have that much, at least), she’d be hiding. Where would she hide? Where would she go if she could?

Bard. She spoke of Bard as often as she did of her father; if she could choose a place to hide, she’d go to Bard’s house, her home. But where was it?

It felt like years before he finally spotted a healer’s mark on the corner of a rickety building, but it was likely a few hours at most. For an instant, he froze. He couldn’t barge in like he wanted to without scaring her. He couldn’t sneak in without scaring her. Of course, that was assuming she was inside, but she had to be. He’d been looking for her for hours or days or months, his agitation only growing with every minute that passed without finding her, seeing her, holding her. She had to be inside. She had to be there, had to be right there, had to be in arm’s reach finally. She had to be.

But the moment passed, and he gave up on trying to think as he took the stairs two at a time. “Bell?”

To his credit, he did make an effort not to ram the door open. The fact that it still struck the wall with enough force to immediately bounce shut again behind him was obviously due to shoddy Mannish craftsmanship. In any case, he barely noticed; scanning the room showed no obvious hiding places, but they wouldn’t be obvious, would they? Shaking his head, he moved to stand by the stairs in case she was below, but kept his attention on the room before him.

“Bell? Are you here?” As though from a distance, he realized how terrified he sounded; an urge struck him, to compose himself, to force himself into the king he was meant to be, but he rejected it without a second thought. Things had been strained between them since he told her how he felt, since she didn’t say it back, but mostly, mostly they’d been strained because she still wouldn’t tell him what was truly troubling her. Four nights, four days. He never pushed, he never pried, but the dreams’ oddness meant that she could tell he wanted to ask as easily as he could tell that she’d tell him in her own time and pushing before then would only push her into staying silent that much longer.

He hated this. He hated not knowing how to help her. Not knowing what she needed, what he could do, what he shouldn’t do under any circumstances. And mostly, he hated not knowing she was well. Abruptly, his knees gave out and he collapsed against the wobbly railing; leaning his head on his hands, he let out a shuddering sigh. He didn’t bother to raise his voice, some dream-touched corner of his mind absolutely sure that she would be able to hear him if she were anywhere in the house, and that he’d never hear her unless she wanted him to.

“Please, Bell. Please, if you’re here, let me know. I won’t bother you if you don’t want to talk, but just let me know that you’re here and not somewhere in that Eru-blighted disease of a town.” He paused for a long moment, but neither heard or saw anything. Sighing, he found himself speaking aloud before he really thought about it. “I know that there’s something going on. I don’t know what, but I know that it has something to do with what I told you a few days ago, and that it’s not that you can’t say it back yet, or at least not just that. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was something to do with your reactions at the trial all those weeks ago, either. And I do mean it. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t ask you to. But whether or not you want to, I think you might need to.”

For several minutes, he was silent. The only sound was that of the lake against the supports. Leaning his head back against the railing, he lowered his voice, pleading softly; she’d never hear it if she wasn’t actually in the room, but he wasn’t sure whether he wanted her to or not, so it didn’t matter. “You keep helping me. Just agreeing to come to Erebor helped me, and then in the pit, you risked your life for me again and again. I still don’t understand why you’re still in Erebor, why you haven’t gone back to your father, and that’s not including how you constantly help me in the dreams. You always help me. Let me help you. Just this once, please, let me help you.”

Again, the only sound was that of the lake outside; shoulders slumping, he closed his eyes, trying to muster the energy to get up and keep looking for her.

Then she dropped into his lap.

His arms wrapped around her automatically as hers did around him, his legs shifting to better accommodate her before he even opened his eyes; even before he did, though, he could feel and hear she’d been crying. But even the tiny stab of alarm at that wasn’t enough to mar the sheer relief that washed over him to (finally) have her in his arms, where he could see her for himself.

Most of the time, it was easy to forget that Dwarves were more hardy than most. Most of the time, it was easy to forget to be careful with her. But the same undercurrent of disquietude that kept his sword and the nearest escape route (and how likely it was that he could get her behind him before anything could harm her) constantly at the back of his mind also kept his hold gentle, faint enough to barely be there, loose enough for her to push him away if she wanted.

Every so often, she hiccuped softly with the last shreds of half-hearted sobs, but he only stroked a hand lightly up and down her back and waited for her to speak first. It was several minutes before she did. “I don’t want you to think less of me. It’s not—” She cut his automatic exclamation off, “—It’s not like Azanulbizar. It’s not like after Erebor. It’s just— It’s not as though I was in a war, this isn’t a battlefield—”

There, he had to interrupt. “No, on a battlefield, the enemy is easy to find. This is like Mirkwood: there’s nothing in sight, but there’s something…” Realizing his hand had fallen to his sword, he growled quietly and shook his head. “This place feels evil. If this is the state of Lake-town, it’s little wonder you don’t want to go back.”

But she shook her head, albeit faintly. “No, not— not all of Lake-town. Not everyone.” The light flickered, then changed; he looked up to realize that they were on the edge of the main square, the main empty square. Her head lifted enough to glare more hatefully than he’d thought her capable of at two Men who stood on the steps of what was likely the grandest building in the town, pitiful as it was. “Mostly them.”

Following her gaze, he scanned the two figures; they were far from the most agreeable-looking Men he’d known, but he could think of few more repugnant. “I don’t know them.”

Tearing her eyes away from them, she laid her head on his chest again; the men’s eyes tracked her, and he adjusted his arms protectively around her, glaring at the men in her stead. “Alfrid certainly wasn’t born yet when you traveled through. The Master was probably a child, but I don’t know his exact age, and I don’t want to.”

The look in the men’s eyes made his skin crawl even as his blood boiled, but there was nothing he could do to them without moving away from her, and that was out of the question. “And these two threatened you?”

She shuddered, then shook her head snappishly. “That’s what’s so infuriating! Neither of them ever did or said anything that could be proven to be a threat.”

Noting her wording, he clarified, “‘Proven’?”

Beginning to tremble, she turned her face into his jacket, hiding somewhat. “Ostensibly, the Master wished to court me and Alfrid was doing his duty as a courier.”

“And actually?” She hesitated; Thorin tore his eyes from the men to glance at her, only for a bolt of panic to strike him as he saw her arms for the first time. “Bell!”

As gently as he could, he drew her back far enough for him to trace the purple-blue bruises up from her wrists to her shoulder, every one clearly a hand-print. Closer examination showed two similar bruises on her neck, but none on her face or what he could see of her chest (thank Mahal). Granted, he could see much more of the latter than usual; rather than the matronly outfit she’d worn when she first arrived at the mountain, she wore what he remembered Hobbits wearing fifty years earlier: a short-sleeved, short-hemmed, low-cut dress. She looked more uncomfortable than she had in the pit, when she’d sacrificed most of her clothing for bandages; the only explanation he could think of was that they’d been the only people in the pit.

Letting go of her, he shrugged off his jacket and had it most of the way over her shoulders before he realized she might not appreciate the help. “Uh…”

Huffing lightly, she took hold of the jacket herself and pulled it closed, one mottled arm emerging for a few seconds to pull her hair out of the collar before she covered herself again and leaned against him. “Thank you.”

Cradling her to him even more lightly than before for fear of pressing on a bruise he hadn’t seen, he returned to glaring at the men; keeping his voice soft was difficult, but he did his best. “Thank me by explaining, Bell. They hurt you? Did they…”

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. She shook her head anyway. “The Master never laid a finger on me. Alfrid grabbed me sometimes if I tried to get away before he was done talking, but these are all the bruises I accumulated over ten years. It wasn’t as bad as it seems.”

A surge of dragon-fire filled him. “He laid hands on you knowing you didn’t want him to! It’s exactly as bad as it seems! If this were a Dwarven city, I’d have his hands!” After a moment of shocked silence, her breath hitched again, and his anger evaporated as a possibility occurred to him. “…But that’s it, isn’t it. If this had been a Dwarven city, he would have been dealt with years ago.”

Weak sobs beginning to wrack her, she nodded, hiding her face in his shirt. After a few seconds, she pulled back, wiping her eyes roughly. “The Master’s the most powerful man in Lake-town, and Alfrid’s been riding his coattails for nearly nine years. The only reason I lasted ten years with nothing more than bruises is that there were other women in town they could go to.”

Stomach churning, he ventured, “They didn’t…”

“The women were paidwell. I treated all of them for one thing or another over the years; a few couldn’t understand why I’d let standards get in the way of a profit, a few were jealous of Hobbit aging, but even the ones with bruises didn’t seem to care. I offered all of them a way out of town. None of them wanted it.” For a few heartbeats, she held a stony expression; then, tears gathering in her eyes, her face crumpled and she pitched forward again. “But the two of them wouldn’t leave me alone. I avoided them as much as I could, I found every excuse to turn down the Master’s suits, I wasn’t subtle at all, but they still—”

Shushing her softly, he kept his hold as light as he could and pressed a kiss to the top of her head; as she’d accepted his affection so far, he risked stroking a hand up and down her back. She didn’t give any sign that it was unwelcome, so he continued, though it grew more and more difficult to keep the motion of his hand ‘reassuring’ and not ‘caressing’. Scrambling for any train of thought that would keep his mind (and hand) off her curves, he glanced around, but saw no one but the two men at the far end of the square. Given that this was certainly a nightmare, one explanation seemed more likely than not. “The others in the village, they were friendly to you and your father?”

Sniffling quietly, she squirmed into a better position (which didn’t help his already-tenuous self-control in the slightest) and pursed her lips. “To Father, most of the time; he’s always been a quiet sort of amiable, so he fit in fairly well, and he’d fairly harmless anyway. They were more…” Her brow furrowed delicately. “…complicated… to me.”

If he’d had a choice in it, he would’ve stayed silent, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. “How could anyone dislike you?”

She elbowed him lightly, but she was blushing through her flustered frown. “Stop that. I’m not perfect; even in the Shire, there were people I just didn’t get along with.”

Biting back a chuckle, he countered gently, “I didn’t say you’re perfect. But the you I know always helps whoever needs it, and doesn’t hold perceived slights against people, let alone actual insults. I don’t understand how anyone, even Men, could be anything less than benign to you.”

She snorted. “For one thing, I might not hold grudges, but everyone else seems to, and in a town of Men, just one flash of temper in the marketplace gets remembered for years.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips. “You didn’t.”

An equally-slow blush crept over her cheeks. “She was being unreasonable. All I did was point it out. Loudly. And a bit rudely. Which I apologized for, but no one ever seems to remember that part.” Now he snorted; she jabbed him again, but her blush deepened. “And anyway, there was also the fact that for all that the Master is, well, ‘the Master of Lake-town’, Bard is respected by nearly everyone in town, and liked by at least half. Between that and the fact that his… what was it? Great-great-great-grandfather, I think, was the last Lord of Dale…”

She said something after that, but Thorin’s mind was roaring loudly enough to drown out a dragon. “You… you’ve been living with the rightful ruler of Dale.”

He came within a hair’s-breadth of dissolving into hysterical, very un-kingly giggles, but she jabbed him in the ribs hard enough to knock a shallow breath out of him, and that was enough to knock the sense back into him. “Not ruler of anything right now, even though he should be. He’s the only man besides you I’ve ever known who can look regal while he does anything and everything he needs to to take care of his own. He’d be a bloody good Lord of Dale, and even if not everyone in Lake-town would follow him, enough would to start rebuilding, and more than enough to undermine the Master’s power. But enough people like Bard that when he installed a young, pretty thing in his house and then his wife ‘mysteriously’ died a year later, people talked. And they never really stopped talking.”

The hurt and grief in her voice was almost palpable; he kissed her head again reflexively. “You cared for her?”

Nodding, she sniffled. “Her name was Rûna. She was wonderful, and a fantastic healer, and so kind— she wouldn’t have stood out in the Shire, she was so lovely. But she was sick. I still don’t know exactly what it was, I don’t think she really did, but she’d seen it before, once, so she knew it wasn’t contagious. Some sort of wasting disease, I don’t know. There was nothing anyone could do, nothing she could do. Except train a replacement.” Voice cracking, she wiped her eyes. “I already knew a fair amount of herblore, but she was the one who taught me to set bones and recognize infection and what things were poisonous to Men.”

Thinking over what she’d told him of the ‘Bardlings’, he mused, “The youngest couldn’t have been very old at the time.”

She shook her head, breath hitching. “Tilda’s first birthday was a few weeks after Father and I arrived, and Rûna— It was only a couple months after Tilda’s second that—”

Slowly, she dissolved into sobs again, and he just held her; he closed his eyes, wrapped his arms around her (still only lightly), and just held her.

 

At the sight of nothingness, she sighed. She must have rolled away from Thorin in her sleep; it had happened before. Still feeling raw from her nightmare and the ensuing conversation, she hugged herself tightly and just listened.

It wasn’t singing, exactly. There were no words, not even a voice, ironically enough. The sound was somewhere between a fiol den chos and the wind through Erebor, full and rich, plaintive and mournful, and perfectly suited to the song. Even if she hadn’t been close to tears already, remembering her mother teaching it to her, and teaching it to Rûna and the Bardlings in turn, would have been enough to tip her over the edge.

Closing her eyes as tears began to fall, she joined softly in.

_“I am the voice of the past that will always be_

_Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields_

_I am the voice of the future_

_Bring me your peace_

_Bring me your peace and my wounds, they will heal…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so sorry for the late update. The Harry Potter fandom is sucking me back in and I just can't stop writing! Which would be awesome, except I'm supposed to be working on Mångata, not a HP rewrite that will probably never see the light of day anyway! *groans* Why do I do this to myself?!?  
> Now that that's out of the way, actual story notes: part of the reason for this chapter is because I realized I was heading toward Mary-Sue levels of 'everyone loves Bell', so here ya go. Óin isn't jealous of her or anything; professionally, he likes her well enough. Personally, he just doesn't think much of her. They have very different personalities, and I always thought it was a little out there for all fourteen people in a group to be best buds, anyway. The thing about 'those who love evil' is a reference to Micah 3, mostly verses 2-3, but kind of the whole section. And also, 'fiol den chos' is my (horrible, probably) attempt to figure out what the name 'viol de gamba' would be like if it had been invented by Irish people instead of Italians. But seriously, look up viol de gambas, they're awesome.  
> Also, that's my favorite verse in The Voice. (^u^)  
> À bientôt!


	23. August 8, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, perhaps there’s something there that wasn’t there before.  
> (Happy Halloween!)

Bell trailed a hand over the wall as she walked; not quite three months since returning from the pit, and she was starting to be able to navigate completely on her own. Her eyes had even begun to adjust to the low lighting, though it gave her a headache to go farther than a corridor or two without a candle or somesuch. But she’d gotten Diarmait’s permission to mark the staircases with charcoal, numbers marking the level; she thought about adding a letter for what section of the mountain it was, but she didn’t have any trouble with directions underground, no Hobbit did.

But Hobbits didn’t like to be so far underground.

But evidently, she was even further from being a typical Hobbit than she’d guessed. She went outside for a few minutes once or twice a day, and she and Diarmait had eventually made their herb-gathering trips a weekly habit, but by and large, she was content with staying inside. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t make a few changes if she could. There was one hall near the entrance that would get near-constant sunlight in the summer, and she’d found what must have originally been a crevice in the mountain that had been shaped into a courtyard, and would be perfect for a modest garden.

Thinking of planting led her thoughts to the coming winter. Winter was harsher outside of the Shire, and began earlier; in the Shire, it was still warm enough most years to go without a shawl during the harvest festival at the beginning of November. Here and now, it wasn’t even mid-August yet, and she was beginning to be grateful for Diarmait’s warmth when they went outside. It wasn’t half as bad inside, though. Even in winter, it ought to be warm enough to support a garden.

A light clattering broke her out of her musing about what flowers she’d plant; she couldn’t truly say she was surprised to see Bofur running up behind her. “Found you!”

Something about Bofur’s easy humor made it hard not to smile around him. “I wasn’t aware I was hiding.”

He just shrugged good-naturedly and kept pace beside her for a few moments. “So Bifur had an idea.”

She mock-groaned. “Is this one of yours? Because the last time ‘Bifur’ had an idea, I was dyed purple for a week.”

He chuckled. “No, this one really is his, although I would’ve thought of it, too, if I’d been the head of the family.”

Bewildered, she stopped and stared at him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

He smiled benignly up at her. “He finally thought of a way to make it up to you.”

She didn’t need to ask what ‘it’ was; smiling, she rolled her eyes. “That was nearly a month ago, Bofur. I forgave all of you ages ago.” Their collaborative braiding lesson had been unexpected, but nice; even Diarmait had offered commentary, though none of them had been able to get her past the most basic braids.

Grimly, he shook his head. “Words might be enough for Hobbits, but they aren’t for Dwarves. We wronged you. We have to make amends.”

 _‘And they can’t shave their beards like this.’_ She frowned. Why had she thought that? Why would they need to shave? Shaking off the strange thought, she started walking again. “So what did you and Bifur have in mind?”

“Teaching you our language.” She looked sharply at him; it hadn’t taken long for her to appreciate just how confidential it was: not quite on the same level as Hobbitish, but nearly. “It would have to be just between us, of course; you couldn’t even tell Óin, let alone Kobor, but you’d be able to understand Bifur.” He was silent for a moment, then quietly continued, “He really wants to talk with you without a translator.”

Heat building at the back of her eyes, she looked straight ahead. “I’d like to talk to him, too.”

 

Later, Bell looked idly over the hall, only half-seeing the empty, dusty reality. She couldn’t stop imagining it filled with people and laughter, light spilling out of the crystal chandelier overhead and emanating softly from nowhere in particular, making the stone-locked chamber as bright as daylight. A solstice festival, in the dead of winter, but so full of warmth and light and life that it was simultaneously impossible to remember the cold and impossible to forget the time of year. She didn’t know where the fantasy had come from, whether a forgotten dream or her own imagination, but it was strong enough that she could almost see the partygoers, some of them familiar somehow, especially one Dwarf, a brunet with the most stunning blue eyes she’d ever imagined, almost more stunning than she could imagine, and his name was on the tip of her tongue—

“—ell?”

She turned automatically, somewhat surprised to see Diarmait in the doorway. “Oh, I thought you were Bofur.” Glancing around the empty room, she frowned. “He was here just a moment ago.”

He snorted lightly. “I saw him in the common room twenty minutes ago.”

“Really?” She’d been thinking for longer than she’d… what had she been thinking of?

Smiling wryly, he moved fully into the room. “You must be more distracted than usual.”

Huffing out a laugh, she looked over the room again, seeing it as it truly was, but pleased with the sight all the same. “Yes, I think I am.” There was a slight chill under her feet, but all it did was remind her of her earlier thoughts; she smiled. “You know, winter used to be my favorite season.” A pang struck her, “And then the Fell Winter happened, and winters in Lake-town are so much harsher than in the Shire, but… there’s a beauty in it.”

As she distantly registered Diarmait curling in a half-circle around her, she sat, a serene smile growing as she thought aloud. “People always call winter barren, but I can’t see it, myself. It’s stark, and perhaps empty, but to me, ‘barren’ implies ‘hopeless’. Even the worst winters come to an end eventually. Even the Long Winter did. And all that being empty means is that there’s space to be filled, room to grow, spring to look forward to.” Her smile widened into a small, crooked grin. “I think I’m looking forward to winter this year.”

He chuckled lowly, but said nothing. The silence was comfortable, and neither of them moved for several minutes except to shift closer together; when her back hit his side, for an instant it seemed to Bell that she was sitting against the brunet she’d imagined before, but the illusion vanished in another moment, and was again forgotten in a further minute. Eventually, he broke it. “So, what do Hobbits do in the winter?”

Wryly, she smirked at him. “Prepare for spring, some of the time.” He chuckled; she shrugged. “It’s important to make sure that the land’s ready for planting, that it’s been cleared of fallen branches and such. Some of it can be done in autumn, or after the first snowmelt, but some of it has to be done in the middle months.” Now she chuckled. “Though, we spend as much time as we can inside by the fire.”

“That’s right, you don’t care for the cold.” His tone started out teasing, but turned faintly apologetic by the end of the sentence.

She poked him in the side, then mock-shivered. “No Hobbit does. The less time out from under the covers, the better. Granted,” she smiled, “a good, damp day, when the snow’s wet enough for snowball fights and snowmen and such… But even so, the best part of the day is coming back inside and curling up by the fire in a pile of blankets with a book and a huge mug of hot cider.”

She grinned, picturing curling up with blankets on her lap and Diarmait at her back, sipping cider and listening to him translate one book or another, as she’d successfully tricked him into doing a few times. But he turned his face away, voice sorrowful-but-trying-for-flat. “I’m not sure you’ll care for Erebor in the winter, then. It gets very cold in the mountain.”

Rolling her eyes, she didn’t give him a second to stew on it. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. That’s what blankets are for. Besides, worse comes to worst, there are plenty of fireplaces for me to camp beside.” A half-laugh left him and he coiled more fully around her, relaxing somewhat. After a few moments of silence, a thought occurred to her. “Anyway, don’t you think you’re exaggerating? It’s hardly colder now than summer, no matter how cold it is outside.”

He chuckled lowly and bobbed his head to the side; after a moment, he frowned. “What’s cider?”

 

Bell grinned at the sheer shock on Thorin’s baby-face. For all the jumbled mess of emotions being in the Shire in winter brought, it was worth it just for that look. “Told you cider was fantastic.”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy chugging his mug. Smiling, she sipped her own mug and looked over the Shire, swinging her legs under the bench. The Shire in winter was beautiful, but even so, she’d taken the precaution of taking them to an earlier memory than usual in order to avoid the worst of her aversion for it. But even as a six-year-old, the familiar sight set a gnawing pit in her stomach. It wasn’t a tenth as bad as it would be if she were any older, but still.

Glancing over to see Thorin watching her, she tried to school her features. “What?”

He shook his head, eyes falling to his empty mug, then set it down beside him and gestured to the Shire, though his eyes held hers. “This is why you left, isn’t it?”

Blinking away a blur, she swallowed. “I don’t know what you m—”

“It hurts you.” Her words stuck in her throat; her eyes burned, but she couldn’t look away from him. “Being here, seeing this, it hurts you. Doesn’t it?”

Tearing her eyes from his, she wiped her face roughly. “It’s only because we were talking about winter earlier.” But he was right.

Closing her eyes against the Shire, she focused clumsily on the first memory that occurred to her, and curled into herself as her body morphed to that of her adult self and the air warmed. Broad, long arms pulled her charily to Thorin; trembling, she looped an arm around his neck, holding him in place. Inhaling shakily, a part of her mind wondered when she’d grown so used to the smell of him; the rest wondered why he’d tensed. “Bell… why did you bring us here?”

Brow furrowed, she pulled back just far enough to follow his gaze to the forest behind her. Or, more accurately, to the Wood. Mood plummeting further, she turned around again and leaned her forehead against his chest. “Because clearly, I want to torture myself.” He made a slight, confused sound; she cut him off, heart stuttering. “I can’t go in there, Th— I can’t, I—Don’t as—”

He stroked his hand up and down her back, voice cracking. “Shh, no, Bell, I wouldn’t— You never, never need to do anything you don’t want to— Mahal, shear me if you ever think I’m pushing y—”

Slowly, she calmed enough to look back at the woods again, eyes burning. From where they were, Mirkwood almost looked like any other forest. “We knew better.” Sniffing, she scrubbed her hand over her eyes, glaring impotently at the trees. “As soon as we saw it, as soon as we felt it—”

Breath hitching, she cut herself off; Thorin laid his head on hers as his arms tightened around her abdomen, pulling her flush against his chest; throat tight, she gripped his forearms when he tried to loosen them, locking them in place. She couldn’t remember this without something anchoring her to the present, some tangible reminder that Mirkwood wasn’t the end of her story.

“We should’ve gone around.” She had to choke out the words, but it was easier after that. “We knew we should’ve, but we didn’t have the supplies— We could’ve foraged, we should’ve, but we thought the forest couldn’t be that large. We thought it couldn’t be more than a few weeks travel.” The forest dissolved into a grey-green blur, but she didn’t look away. “We were wrong.”

Her throat closed against actually saying the words; a shuddering breath shook through Thorin and into her. “After Smaug, we came here first. We asked for aid, for safe passage. He gave us nothing. Looked us in the eyes and turned us away.”

Bitterly, she half-laughed. “He hasn’t changed, then.”

Behind her, he stilled. “…You met him?”

“After it was too late.” Looking at the path, she shook her head faintly. “We spent over a month struggling through, starving. Father was always more fragile than Mother and I, but he did well, I thought. And then Mother collapsed and it turned out that she’d been giving him nearly all her food.” A low, sorrowful noise left Thorin; Bell had to fight not to cry. “We weren’t strong enough to carry her, so we had to just stay where we were, we couldn’t risk getting separated, and she passed out. And then she passed a…”

Her voice gave out as she nearly lost the fight; stubbornly, she forced the tears back and cleared her throat. “And she wasn’t even cold yet when Legolas and Tauriel got there with a patrol. Found out later they’d been clearing a nest of giant spiders not far from where we were, and they’d stumbled on us by chance. Except that a few weeks later, Tauriel let it slip that they’d known we were there, that Thranduil had ordered them not to help us.” A harsh half-laugh, half-sob left her. “From how he spoke to us, I think he wanted us to beg him for help. Probably had no idea how breakable we are compared to Elves.”

“Or didn’t care.” She couldn’t argue that, or the loathing in his voice; almost as soon as the words left him, he groaned near-inaudibly and squeezed her gently in a wordless apology. She squeezed his arms back; she knew it wasn’t her he was angry with. Relaxing somewhat, he buried his face in her hair and let out a low sigh. “He came to Erebor when Smaug attacked. He saw that we were dying and he turned his back on us. That Melkor-spawn refused to even send healers to us, or food. He cares for nothing but himself.”

That, she could argue. “No, that’s not true.”

“Bell…”

Turning to face him, she cut him off. “No, you didn’t see him with his son. We were in his palace for six weeks before he sent us on to Lake-town, and I saw how he is with his people. I don’t think he cares about anyone who’s not an Elf, and I’m not sure he even cares about most Elves, but I don’t doubt he loves his son. Even if he’s terrible at showing it.”

She held his eyes for a long moment, refusing to give an inch, and eventually he subsided with a sigh. “It doesn’t excuse anything he’s done.”

She shook her head. “Nothing ever could. But what’s the point in hating him? It won’t change the past. I’ll never, never forget that he’s the reason Mother’s waiting for Yavanna in a forest that hasn’t seen daylight since before the Wandering Days. But if he offered his help now, I’d take it. I’d be wary, I’d make certain there wasn’t a catch, I’d watch for the moment to cut ties and run, if necessary, but I’d probably take his help.”

His expression had grown progressively more thunderous as she spoke. When the dreams had first begun perhaps she wouldn’t have seen anything but rage in his eyes, but now she saw the emotions flitting behind the hard mask. Now she knew enough not to be surprised when he slumped, shaking his head slowly. “I’m not half as good as you, Gabshelê. I don’t think I could take a word from that snake at face value.”

Despite herself, she huffed out a half-laugh. “Well, that’s why there’s two of us, isn’t it?”

He stiffened, glancing at her wide-eyed; realizing what she’d said, she tensed, as well. For all that they both knew that the dreams seemed, at least, to take place in the future, in their future, one where they were happily married and seemed as though they would be for a good deal of time, neither of them had ever really addressed it. And neither of them, despite his declaration, had referenced making a life together in reality.

Softly, he breathed, “Bell…” Catching himself, he inhaled sharply, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened his eyes, the vulnerability he was trying to hide broke her heart, especially as she saw how cautious he was being. “Do you mean that? Do you mean…” He swallowed thickly, throat bobbing behind his beard. “What are you saying?”

Eyes burning, she gaped at him for a moment. “I…” She swallowed against the lump in her throat, blinking away the heat. She couldn’t lie to him, intentionally or otherwise. She couldn’t make him promises she couldn’t keep. Not when he’d had so little he could depend on in his life. She couldn’t do that to him. “…I’m saying it’s past time you showed me the market like you remember it.”

For a long, loaded moment, he only matched her gaze. Inhaling shakily, he nodded; there was no hurt in his eyes, only understanding. Somehow, that was worse than if he’d broken down. “As you wish.”

 

There was something behind the music, like whispering. It was bizarre; even the music, no matter how similar it was to singing, clearly wasn’t, but this was just as clearly a voice, repeating something again and again, too quiet under the music to make out. But at the same time, the music seemed quieter than it had been for weeks. Moving in any direction only weakened it further; she couldn’t explain why the realization sent anxiety worming through her, or why she felt as though willing herself awake as she had before would be a mistake.

Scowling as she concentrated, Bell closed her eyes and listened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! Bonus update!  
> Sorry about the angst, but... Wait, no, actually, I'm not. I swear, the only way I can keep from torturing my characters is to only write one-shots. Clearly, that's not going to happen anytime soon.  
> Basically my only note for this chapter (sorry it's short) is that 'gabshelê' means 'my wealth of all wealths', which is important because I specifically did not choose the word for 'hidden wealth'. Oh, and the reference toward the end? Completely intentional. (^u^)  
> À bientôt!


	24. September 20, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We don’t like/ what we don’t understand/ in fact, it scares us…

“…n’t need a new dress!”

“It’s your birthday!

“Exactly! You’ve made me a year’s worth of clothes already; I don’t need another. Besides, how am I meant to give you anything if you’re making things for me?”

As Dori and Nori both stopped still in pure bewilderment, at the other end of the room, Thorin chuckled. “Hobbits.”

“What, like you knew?”

Thorin glanced down at Dwalin. “I did.” Dwalin snorted; Thorin raised a brow. “You do realize I do talk to her.”

With a jangling cackle, Dwalin pivoted back and forth in a quasi-head-shake. “Mahal, you’re twitter-pated.” Thorin choked on nothing; he could hear the diabolical grin as his old friend continued. “And an idiot if you think it’s not obvious.”

Sputtering, Thorin shot a look at Bell, a fraction of his panic evaporating to see no sign she’d heard Dwalin, but he still lowered his voice to a furious hiss. “Don’t be disgusting— I don’t feel anything like that—”

Scoffing, Dwalin cut him off. “I know you don’t want to marry the chit, but not being ‘in’ love with her doesn’t mean you don’t love her.”

Barely holding back an irate growl, Thorin started, “You—”

…and then found no words forthcoming. What could he say? That he didn’t love her? He couldn’t say he’d given any thought to the topic since before the pit, but he couldn’t say that, not honestly. He wasn’t sure he could honestly say he did love her, but it would feel like a lie to say anything less. Did he love her?

Lying his head on his paws, facing the wall, he seriously considered the question. It didn’t help that the curse complicated everything. Did he want her to be happy because he loved her or because she was part of his hoard? Did he want her to be safe for her own sake or because she was his?

Was he still a Dwarf, or was the dragon winning?

Some days, he almost forgot he was cursed; others, he couldn’t remember what it was to be a Dwarf. But the former were growing more and more rare. They had been before he met Bell, as well, but then she’d come, and for a time, longer than he would’ve expected, he’d felt himself again. If he needed any sign that she could, potentially, break the curse, he wasn’t sure anything could be clearer.

But it had only lasted so long. In the few weeks since the day she told him how she was looking forward to spending winter in Erebor, he’d backslid to where he’d been before they’d met. In a thousand years, he never would have expected that; he almost felt as though something else had happened, something before the next morning, but there was nothing. They’d gone their separate ways for the day, talked into the night as usual, and in the morning he’d had to actually hold himself back from carrying her to the treasury with the rest of the gold.

He didn’t understand it. All he knew was that every time she called him ‘Diarmait’, the side of him that was still a Dwarf regained that much strength. In his worse moments, he was tempted to demand she not leave his side at all, just to stave off the curse, but he never could. He never would.

So long as there were any traces of ‘Thorin’ left in him, he would not control her. Try to.

But that was there, as well. It was getting harder to remember that she had a will of her own, that she had a mind, opinions, all the irksome independence that cold metal and gems didn’t.

He was starting to worry that soon, there would be nothing left of ‘Thorin’, only ‘Kobor’.

It terrified him.

Dwalin cleared his throat pointedly, dragging Thorin’s attention back to him. The initial question rushed back, and Thorin considered it again.

Did he love her?

…

…The only answer he could truly give, could even think without feeling like a liar, was that he loved her as much as someone like him could love [anyone](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/i-love-you-as-much-as-someone-like-me-could-love-anyone/1240446372?i=1240446395).

Whatever that meant.

 

“Something on your mind?”

Startled, he glanced at Bell; the cramped, though very well-lit, hallway was entirely unfamiliar, and he hadn’t been able to hear her approach at all under the foreign sounds of a wooden home at night. “Other than I thought these were supposed to be the future?”

Smirking wryly, she walked past him, catching hold of his hand to tug him along. “I think they still are; evidently, we’ll take a trip to the Shire at some point.”

He raised a brow. “You know these halls?” He didn’t, which ruled out Bag-End; she’d shown him more enough memories of her childhood for him to recognize it.

But she nodded. “We’re in the Great Smials.” Opening a door, she met his confused gaze and held back a laugh. “My mother’s family’s home, in Tuckborough. It makes sense; the Thain isn’t the Mayor or anything, but he’s the one who negotiates with outsiders. Besides, I’d want to see my cousin as much as he would me.”

“Cousin?” Stepping through, Thorin blinked as he realized he could actually stand up; the ceiling was at least a foot higher than in the hall.

“Whoever it is. My uncle was Thain when we left the Shire, but he was getting old, so I doubt he’s Thain now, let alone however far ahead we are now.” Her tone was intentionally light, but he knew her too well to believe it, and he knew from experience how she felt; he’d gone more than fifty years without a word from Ered Luin, after all. For all he knew, his entire Line could have been wiped out in the meantime. For all she knew, she wouldn’t know whoever she returned to, whenever she came back to the Shire.

The topic reminded him of his earlier thoughts, however obliquely. Heavily, he dropped into one of the larger chairs by the wall. Hiding anything would do nothing but drag out the discussion, so instead, he met her eyes steadily. “I didn’t answer your question before.”

Soberly, she sat beside him, keeping her eyes on his all the while. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She meant that, he knew. If he changed his mind, decided he wasn’t ready, she’d give him time. But he didn’t want to wait.

“Do you want to stay in Erebor?” She blinked at him, evidently taken off-guard by the question; he continued before she could answer. “I haven’t… I haven’t told you everything, the last few weeks.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as the Arkenstone’s dimming.”

“What?” If anything, she looked more surprised than when he’d confessed his love.

Setting aside his own questions for the moment, he nodded. “I think it's connected to the curse, I have for years, but now I’m sure. It… It was dimming for years, and then you came. When we returned from the pit, it was brighter than it had been in decades. But in the last weeks, since—” Remembering how painful the dream had been for her, he faltered, but finished softly, “Since we spoke of Mirkwood,” she inhaled sharply, but said nothing when he paused, “Since then, it’s been dimming. Gradually enough that I wasn’t sure for a fortnight, but it is. It’s already back to where it was just before you came.”

Lamplight shone in her eyes as she stared at him, more horrified than he would have expected. “You— You’re sure?”

Perplexed, he watched her reaction as he nodded. “Completely.” Covering her mouth, she faced forward again, leaning over her knees and breathing rapidly, nearly hyperventilating. Alarmed, he wrapped an arm around her back, supporting her as best he could when they were in separate chairs. “Bell, what’s wrong?”

Immediately, she shook her head. “I don’t know! It’s like— like you said you were dying! I don’t understand—” Abruptly, she snapped her head around to look him full in the face; a beat too late, he realized that with his arm where it was, she’d felt him stiffen. “Thorin!? Tell me I’m wrong!”

As much as he wished he could, he couldn’t lie to her. Slowly, he shook his head, hating the way her expression crumpled. “There are days when I can’t remember what it feels like to— Well.” Huffing out a half-chuckle, he carded her free hand through her hair before settling it at her temple, cupping her cheek; her eyes fluttered shut, but opened again when he spoke, a few stray tears escaping. “This. Having hands instead of paws, having hair, a beard. Being a Dwarf, not a dragon.”

Brows knitting sympathetically together, she copied his motion, and brushed away tears he hadn’t felt fall. “Oh, Thorin…”

Resolutely, he shook his head, covering her hand with his to still her. “I don’t want sympathy, Gabshelê. That’s not why I told you.”

She huffed at him, eyes shining, as if to say ‘I didn’t think it was’, but didn’t say a word. Verbally, at least; the look she gave him said ‘explain, then’ as clearly as if she’d said it aloud.

Forcing himself to focus on the topic at hand, rather than how dearly he wanted to kiss her, he held her eyes seriously. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll truly be a Dwarf. If this continues, the day will come, soon, when all that’s left is the dragon. If that happens, I’ll treat you like a possession, like treasure. I’ll lock you in the treasury with the rest of the gold and I’ll probably never let you see the light of day again.” The next words were the hardest, but thinking of her in that situation, in a prison of his own making, were enough to loosen his tongue. “If you’re going to leave, you need to do so as soon as possible. If I take you away, then maybe I won’t come after you when I’m gone, and if you stay indoors, at least for the first few days or weeks, then I won’t see you, and I won’t want to leave my hoard for long, so I won’t be able to search often, so you should be saf—”

A sudden, broken laugh from Bell interrupted him, and she swept his hair away from his eyes, smiling sadly. “You really don’t have a selfish bone in your body, do you?”

Sweet as it was, he couldn’t let it slide. “I’m a dragon; every bone is selfish.”

“Oh, you know what I mean, Diarmait. When was the last time, when you weren’t cursed or in these dreams, that you did something purely for your own sake? Not to make anyone else happy, just you?”

“I…” After nearly a minute’s thought, he admitted defeat. “I don’t remember.”

“See?” She laughed softly, “Unselfish.”

The word sent a jolt of electricity down his spine, but he realized a moment later that it wasn’t quite right. But it was close. And it felt almost… “…Bell, what does Diarmait mean?”

Clearly concerned, she nonetheless tilted her head to one side and considered the question. “‘Without envy’. Oh, that’s close, isn’t… Wait, how did you know?”

Hesitating, he shifted in his seat, only to freeze with a wince as the wood creaked ominously. “Would you mind if I…”

He flapped his hand gawkily, the thought of what, exactly, they’d be speaking of making him jittery. Mirth breaking through her concern, she shook her head. Nodding jerkily, he stood and held a hand out to her; she took it and pulled herself up, stepping close as the room around them rippled into a sunlit field, wildflowers dotted among grass tall enough to nearly hide Thorin, and completely hide Bell. As soon as it settled, Bell dropped to sit among the flowers with a delighted grin, but he could barely muster a half-smile in response.

Sitting in front of her, he let out a slow breath, deciding how to start. “Has Balin, or Bofur or Ori, anyone, spoken to you about Dwarven Names? If anyone would, I’d expect Glóin to.”

Frowning slightly, she shook her head. “No, nothing.”

He nodded. “The names we tell others aren’t our real names. Truly, we have four names: we use amân, names such as ‘Balin’ and ‘Nori’ among other races, though in this Age, it’s become common to use a mainu with anyone, even Dwarves, we don’t know; our fathers give us akharâm, kin-names for use with family; akharâm used to be used with any Dwarves, but now it’s common for fathers to give another akhrâm, an imn, a nickname, for Dwarves who aren’t family. The fourth… the fourth is given by our mothers.

“They give us nakharâm, inner names. When Mahal crafted us, according to legend, he gave us one, small magic. A nakhrâm is a wish, a mother’s hope for her child. The name she gives her child holds the hope, whether for her son to be strong, or her daughter to be wise, or brave, mighty, wealthy, whatever she hopes. In the first days, those wishes shaped every Dwarf’s life; now, no one believes it to be anything more than superstition, but it’s part of what makes us who we are. And… do Hobbits have Ones?”

She shook her head, brow furrowed. “I assume it’s more than a number?”

Despite the nerves churning in his gut, he chuckled. “Much more. Although that is how it began: in the first days, when Dwarves were truly at liberty for the first time, and the different Lines began to mingle, each Dwarf one met one other, if that, who knew his or her nakhrâm without being told.”

Fidgeting restlessly, Bell shook her head. “But how is that possible?”

He shrugged easily. “Mahal’s blessing? Does it matter how, so long as it is?”

Stilling, she stared at him for a long moment, something in her expression that he didn’t recognize.

“What?”

Startling slightly, she shook her head with a grin. “You just— my mother used to say something similar.”

Curious, he tilted his head. “About what?”

For an instant, her expression tensed; quickly enough that he would have thought he’d imagined the previous look if he didn’t know her so well, her smile relaxed again and she gave him a teasing look. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

Mock-alarmed, he glanced around at all the eavesdroppers who weren’t there, and was rewarded with a giggle from his wife; smiling softly at her, he settled down to listen. “Hobbits are good for the land. Wherever we are, if we stay for long enough and if there are enough of us, the soil is richer, the fruits and flowers are bigger, even the grass is more lush. It takes years, of course, but… what?”

He could only gape at her for a moment. “…You came to Lake-town ten years ago.”

Raising a brow, she nodded. “Yeah, but why does it matter?”

Scoffing lightly, he gestured up. “I fly every chance I can get, Gabshelê; in the last ten years, I’ve seen more weeds and saplings take root around Lake-town and Erebor than in the forty before that.”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, that doesn’t make sense— it would take all of North-Farthing coming here to make any sort of difference in a single decade.”

“But this area is, or was, known as the ‘desolation of Smaug’ for good reason; his presence poisoned the land; could two Hobbits be enough to ease the curse?”

For a few moments, she considered the question. “What about the forest by Erebor?”

He shook his head. “That began growing just after Smaug died, rapidly, but it’s only spread at a snail’s pace since then. Since we were in the pit, that forest has expanded its borders more than in two decades.” Her expression shifted, but she didn’t speak. “What is it?”

“What you’re describing… the only explanation I can think of is— is that Hobbits used to live here. During the Long Winter, a little under two hundred years ago, thousands of Hobbits died, even more than in the Fell Winter, and then because the winter was so long, then came the Days of Dearth— hundreds more starved— the famine lasted a full year. The Shire was decimated. It took nearly a century for our numbers to recover, and in the meantime, there were entire villages lying fallow. But as soon as even a single family moved in, it was as though no time had passed at all, where the land was concerned. It just… snapped back to where it had been.”

“I haven’t seen much ‘snapping’.”

She shook her head. “Most of the fallow land was empty for ten years, twenty at most, and the land was free to grow wild. It makes sense that something actively poisoning the land would take more time to reverse.” She was silent for a moment, then shook her head again, going back to the earlier subject. “But what do Dwarven Names have to do with a nickname I gave you?”

For a few moments, he could only smile softly at her. “Bell, think about it.”

She stared at him, blinking as she thought; he could almost see the connections snapping into place behind her eyes. After not half as long as it would have taken him, she inhaled sharply, eyes flying wide. “You can’t mean—”

“I do.”

“It’s only a nickname— it just…”

She trailed off, staring at him as though she’d realized something, and he prompted gently, “Just…”

Slowly, she finished, “…seemed to fit somehow.” His smile widened as she regarded him more intently, pride filling him like fire in his chest, but softer, warmer. There were times he couldn’t believe how much he loved her. Eyes sharp and intelligent, she leaned slightly forward, filling his vision as she scrutinized his reactions. “Correct me if I’m wrong. You’re saying that your… nakram, sorry, the wish that may or may not have shaped you, is the Khuzdûl equivalent of Diarmait?”

He nodded easily. “Nakhrâm, and yes.”

“But you can’t just tell me what it is.”

“No.”

“Because if you tell me, there’s no way to know if I’m your One.”

“Yes.”

“Despite the fact that I’m getting as close as I can without speaking your language, which, I would think, would seem to indicate that I am.”

“Yes.”

She was silent for a few moments. Her cool expression cracked. “Am I?”

He hesitated before answering. He still didn’t know the full reasons why she was so hesitant to even address what he felt for her, though he had his guesses. Context was needed. “There’s something you need to understand first. As I've said before, there are twice as many male Dwarves as female. Not everyone has a One, and of those who do, only about two-thirds are their One’s One in return. Because women are so rare in our race, they are given the priority, always. Whether a woman is a man’s One or not, whether he’s her One or not, that doesn’t mean that they’re in any way bound to one another.

“Many women choose never to marry, whether they’ve found their One or not, and whether or not they’re someone else’s One. And any man who doesn’t respect a woman’s choice in that respect is regarded as much a criminal as—” ‘The Master and Alfrid’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself and instead said, “As the Dwarf I showed you, the one on trial.”

He wanted to touch her so badly that he had to fist his hands in the grass to keep them at his side, but he didn’t stop himself from lowering his voice. “What you choose has nothing to do with me, Bell. It’s completely up to you.” He had a feeling she’d already guessed what he would say, but he finished all the same. “And yes. I’m as sure as I can be that you’re my One.”

The hesitance he remembered was in her expression again, but not quite as strong; he hoped that boded well, but he could only hope. “But if I’m your One, why am I the one who’s trying to find your n— nakhram?”

Sheepishly, he shrugged. “To tell the truth, I’m not sure. It could be because you’re a Hobbit, you don’t have a nakhrâm, so you have to find mine rather than vice versa; it could be part of the curse; it could be any number of reasons. But I am sure. But that doesn’t put any obligation on you. Tell me to leave and I will. Tell me to stay, but give you space, and I will. All you have to do is tell me what you’re comfortable with.”

For a moment, she just looked at him, eyes shining. Then she smiled tightly. “Hobbits don’t have Ones. We have— well,” her cheeks pinked as she averted her eyes from his, “we call them ‘True Loves’. It’s all very fairy-tale, bedtime-story, star-crossed-romance such and such. Most people don’t believe in them anymore, but…” A watery, but genuine smile replaced the parody of a smile from before. “But my parents were absolutely True Loves. Every other married couple seemed loveless compared to them. I asked them about it, more than once, and they always laughed it off, but the way they looked at each other, the way they behaved… I never doubted that they were.”

He ducked his head slightly to catch her eye. “And yet I have the feeling there’s more to that sentence.”

Meeting his eyes, she huffed slightly and nodded once. “After Mirkwood… after watching Bard lose Rûna, when I could see that they loved each other as much as my mother and father ever did, and then…” Swallowing, she drew her arms closer to her torso and shook her head. “I think it was just hard to believe anything that anything so good could still exist.”

More than anything, he wanted to hold her, but he restrained himself to only laying an open palm on his knee, doing his best to offer without pushing, and waited.

He counted fourteen heartbeats before she took a shaky breath and moved forward, into his arms; she settled with her head over his heart and a hand hooked into his belt, under his jacket. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her, something in him easing to have her in his arms. She huffed lowly, a teary smile in her voice. “And by all rights I shouldn’t feel so safe with you, not after everything, but I do, more than I ever could have imagined a year ago.”

The slight sting ‘after everything’ brought was overwhelmed by a flood of pleasure to know that she felt safe with him; he couldn’t wipe away a wide smile as he answered. “So…”

Her arm tightened around him. “So… I don’t know if I love you,” he tried not to jerk at the word, “but I care for you. I like you. You’re my best friend.”

Warmth filled him from tip to toe, almost more than if she’d said she loved him. Feeling too full for speech, he buried his face in her hair; she laughed lightly, then shivered. The dream abruptly ended before he could ask a thing.

 

The music was weaker than ever. Even simply standing in the nothing-world, panic pulsed through her, much as it had when Thorin told her the Arkenstone was dimming. She didn’t understand either reaction, but she had to wonder if they were related.

The Arkenstone, the same stone that had called her and begun the whole pit debacle, begins to dim at the same time that Thorin begins to backslide, reverting to more draconic impulses, as well as at the same time that the music in the mysterious, inexplicable, dream-world begins to quiet.

It seemed too coincidental. Maybe it was nothing.

But somehow, she didn’t think that was the case.

But with the music dimming, the whispering was becoming more audible. She still couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but she could tell it was Khuzdûl, and she could tell it was a woman’s voice, though it was low.

But as always, there wasn’t much she could do but listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, 1) make sure you click on the link in 'as much as someone like me can love anyone', because that show is freaking awesome. 2) Thorin was mostly right: he doesn't have to find her secret name because she doesn't have one, but what he doesn't know (since he's not a Hobbit) is that the reason she does have to find his secret name is because with her (understandable) trust issues, it would take her about five years to realize that he was her True Love. Also, 3) despite Thorin taking it personally, what she meant by 'after everything' was 'after Thranduil/Lake-Town/Alfrid/the Master', not 'after you sort-of-kidnapped me'.  
> That's all I can think of for tonight.  
> À bientôt!


	25. October 7, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> …Then somebody bends, unexpectedly.

“They did not say that!”

Gandalf chuckled, hopping beside her as they made their way through the halls to the common room. “Well, not all of them, certainly, but you underestimate their opinions of you.”

Bell snorted. “I doubt that.” They had all been making amends since the ‘halfling’ incident, but still, she wasn’t one of them.

“Is that so? Then what would you say if I told you that Bombur said that he enjoys cooking for you more than anyone else, and that he’s been putting more effort into coming up with new dishes in the last few months than ever?”

She snorted again, shaking her head. “He loves cooking; of course he enjoys being able to cook again.”

“Oh? Then there must be another explanation for the rest, as well. Such as Dori, who thinks that you’re among the most level-headed, sane people she’s ever known, and that she trusts your opinion because of that? Or Nori, who thinks you’re one of the most impulsive, insane people she’s ever had the pleasure of knowing, and trusts you just as much as her sister? And both consider you ‘Kobor’s’ equal in every way that matters?”

He always put a slight emphasis on ‘Kobor’ that she thought meant he found it as ridiculous as she did, but he never used his true name, whatever it was. “They’re… they’re hard up for company, that’s all.”

“Then explain why Balin is so impressed with how the glue mixtures you’ve shown them are restoring the mountain to its rightful state, or how impressed he is with you in general, or why he thinks you’d make a fine Queen Under the Mountain.”

Bell stopped dead in her tracks with a squeak, feeling her face flame as she stared at him. “He… No. No! That’s Diarmait’s title!”

The needle tilted in a way that made her think he was giving her a look. “No, he’s the rightful King Under the Mountain. Traditionally, there is one of each.”

Her head was going to burst into flames any second, she could feel it. “That— that doesn’t matter!”

Determinedly, she started walking again, but she wasn’t so flustered as to move faster than he could follow. “But will it once the curse is broken?”

Her feet slowed of their own accord, but she couldn’t muster the energy to speed up again. “You don’t know that that will happen.”

“I’m fairly sure.”

“He’s getting worse.” He didn’t respond, and she slowed to a stop, looking at him with something she didn’t want to admit was desperation. “You see it too, don’t you? He’s spending more time in the treasury, he’s getting more irritable— even when it’s just the two of us, he barely talks!” Blinking rapidly, she had to cut herself off before she broke down completely. More quietly, she continued, “He’s not who he was three months ago.”

Just as quietly, he agreed. “No, he isn’t. For a handful of days, he was nearly who he was twenty years ago. But this could only be a temporary setback.”

She huffed and moved forward again, wiping her cheeks. “Or it might not be temporary.”

“There’s always hope, dear girl.”

“Not always.”

He was silent for half a dozen paces. “Why were you so cold to me when you first arrived?”

She froze. For nearly a minute, she waited for him to continue, but he only waited in perfect silence. For another minute, she weighed her options, but eventually she decided. He had a right to know.

Moving slowly, she sat with her back to the wall and her arms looped around her knees. She sighed. “You were there, during the Long Winter.”

He leaned against the wall across from her; she wasn’t carrying a light, but somehow there was just enough for her to see him clearly, though it was still dim. “Yes, I was. That was when I began to pay attention to Hobbits.”

“And the last time you were in the Shire was more than fifty-two years ago.”

“Fifty-four, I believe.” He was beginning to sound suspicious.

“And I doubt any news of the Shire’s reached this far.”

“No.” He was beginning to sound worried.

“So, of course, you wouldn’t have heard of the Fell Winter twenty-two years ago.”

He was silent; she continued before he could say a word.

“It wasn’t as harsh as the Long Winter, but it was as long. Mother and Father and I, we were snowed into Bag-End, we didn’t know anything of what was happening outside, but afterwards I learned that the Brandywine froze over, thick enough that wolves came into the Shire.” She couldn’t continue for several moments. Swallowing, she looked down the corridor, at the darkness at the far end, and rested her head on her knees. “Mother and Father never cared about the games the Bagginses played. Nearly all my friends, and theirs, for that matter, were farmhands or children of farmhands. And none of them were left when spring came. The snows melted and we came out of Bag-End to learn that half the Shire had passed, whether because of starvation or the Wolves.”

Before she continued, she reflected on how little anger the memories brought anymore. She’d spent so long blaming Gandalf for what happened that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like not to carry an undercurrent of resentment with her every day. But now, all she felt was grief. “And every day, for months, Mother and Father told me that you’d come, that you’d save us. I blamed you for not saving us for so long, I forgot to even question whether or not I should. Now I know there was nothing you could have done in any case, but I should’ve thought about it before finding you here. I should’ve wondered why no one had heard from you in so long, whether there was another reason the Wizard who did his best to help everyone would suddenly stop. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought she could hear a smile in his voice. “Apology accepted and, of course, you are forgiven, dear girl. But I do think you are wrong. So long as Eru guides us, there is always hope. On that note,” his tone abruptly returned to the briskness of usual, “have you considered telling any of the Company a bit more about Hobbits?”

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised he knew. “No. Why?”

“You underestimate the Dwarven penchant for secrecy, dear girl. They aren’t as adept as Hobbits, of course, but they guard their race’s confidences fiercely. They’ve been rather scandalously open with you.”

“You mean Diarmait has.” He only leaned forward in a quasi-nod; she thought over her conversations with Diarmait again, lingering on the hints he’d let slip over the months they’d been talking, when he’d said ‘ _Mahal made us’_ … when had he said that?

Her train of thought broke momentarily; she could remember him saying that, so clearly that it felt as though it had only been a day before, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember when it had been.

Similarly, she could remember him mentioning something about _‘Mahal’s blessing’_. She’d never heard of ‘Mahal’ before she came to the mountain, but she’d heard the name more than once since then.

Solemnly, she looked at Gandalf again. “I’ll think about it.”

 

A shiver wracked through her, despite the mountain of blankets covering her and her parents where they were huddled together. The lowest pantry was where they kept the butter and other cold-storage foods in summer, but now it was the warmest room in the house. Ironic.

Another shiver struck her, closely followed by a shudder, not through her, but through everything else. That rippling was familiar somehow, like something she’d seen in a d…

She was dreaming.

She was in Erebor, and she was dreaming, which meant Thorin was somewhere in the dream with her, more likely than not. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, she never could, but the last thing she remembered was talking with him.

In all the dreams they’d shared, they’d never tried to change scenarios without the other being in view, if not in arm’s reach. There was every possibility that it would work as well as always, but there was also a distinct possibility that Thorin would wind up inside a wall, or thirty feet in the air, or underground, for all she knew.

Maybe nothing would go wrong, but she couldn’t take that risk.

She had to find him.

Steeling herself, she edged out from underneath the blankets, only to immediately curl into herself; she hadn’t forgotten the cold, but she’d forgotten how all-consuming it was. The cold filled her until she couldn’t feel anything else, until she’d stopped shivering, until she could barely think. The only thought she had left was of Thorin, of the need to find him; stubbornly, she held onto the knowledge that this was only a memory.

She couldn’t end the dream, but she could alter it. It was harder to concentrate than usual, but after a minute’s focus, she was abruptly in heavy winter gear, of the sort she’d only had after the Fell Winter. Another minute and there was a blazing fire in each corner of the room. Between the two, she warmed relatively quickly, but it was still several minutes more before she left the pantry. She spent the time thinking of all the warmest memories she had and trying to pick out the perfect one.

She hadn’t looked at her parents once. It was bad enough being in the state she’d been in during the Fell Winter; seeing them like that would break her.

As she made her way out, clumsy due both to her mittens and the numbness in her extremities, she tried several times to change her own state to something more healthy, but the dream was too strong, and her concentration was too tenuous. Every time she changed herself, she reverted back within seconds of shifting focus to moving through the house. Even her winter clothes were difficult to maintain, flickering as she tried to think of a way out of the smial.

The snow was too thick to dig through, even if she gave herself a shovel. She could melt it if she made another fire, but it would take all the concentration she had.

She opened the front door to see a solid wall of snow, not giving in the slightest without the support of the door, and too thick to budge in the slightest when she pushed on it.

There really wasn’t a choice, was there?

Sighing, she did her best to picture what she needed without losing her winter gear, but there was only so much she could do to postpone the inevitable. Gritting her teeth, she stepped back from the door and focused; the cold assaulted her from all sides but her front at the same moment that dragon-fire blasted the doorway, licking the edges like something alive. Water pooled under the channel of flames, spreading far enough to freeze in a radius a few feet away, including just in front of her feet. Numbness crept through her as implacably as the ice moving toward her, deadening her limbs and stilling her shivers.

As soon as the fire roared past the door, she released her flimsy hold on it, letting it dissipate into the frigid wind; before she could move toward the door, Thorin appeared in the tunnel the flames had carved out, snow caking him in clumps, but there and real and there.

Her thoughts were sluggish, enough so that it wasn’t until Thorin was only a handful of feet away that she was able to change the dream to a sweltering summer day she remembered from the year before they left the Shire. The snow on Thorin began to melt almost immediately, but she could barely feel the heat, oddly enough.

Her knees buckled; before she could fall, Thorin caught her up in his arms, cradling her to him as though he were carrying her over the threshold. She could barely feel him, either, but she closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest anyway, taking comfort in his presence, if nothing else.

Slowly, heat broke through the pervasive numbness, at first only bringing wracking shudders, but gradually the shivers faded, leaving only warmth. She opened her eyes with difficulty, realizing she’d somehow fallen into a doze despite the fact that she was already asleep. Another moment and she realized she was still twenty-one, still starved; letting her eyes close again, she focused, and opened her eyes once she was her present age.

She’d never actually noticed in the waking world, but the change made it easy to see that she’d gained weight since coming to Erebor, regaining a proper plumpness.

It was probably all the mushrooms.

She made a mental note to thank Bombur.

Switching between the ages also made it easy to notice how little energy she’d had during the Winter; as soon as she opened her eyes, the difference was obvious. As was Thorin’s change of attire.

Biting back a laugh, she ran her fingertips through the hair on his bare chest. “Was your shirt inconveniencing you in some way?”

She looked up as she spoke, but her smile fell away as she met his eyes. Seeing the horror there, and the sorrow, all she could do was move her hand up, carding it through his beard and into his hair; he shuddered and covered it with his free hand, but didn’t look away from her.

He still didn’t speak; gently, she prompted, “As far as I know, these dreams don’t actually let us read each other’s minds.”

Her words served their purpose, and he blinked away some of the shine in his eyes. “I didn’t realize…”

He closed his eyes as he trailed off; her own eyes burning, she laid her head against his shoulder again and listened to his heartbeat. “We had to ration our food. We survived.”

“Barely, from what I saw.”

His voice was raw, but that didn’t soften his words; she kept hers hard. “‘Barely’ was more than most managed.”

He stiffened; a long moment passed; letting out another shuddering breath, he laid his head on hers and laced his fingers through hers, lowering their hands to rest over his heart. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

She only shook her head; she wasn’t angry with him. Not really.

But between the memories, her earlier conversation with Gandalf, and how badly she wanted to just relax and enjoy being in his arms, it was as easy as breathing to say the words she’d been trying to find for weeks.

“But this is why.” He made a confused noise, but she didn’t let him speak; if she did, she’d probably lose her nerve. “Thorin, I survived the Winter only to bury almost everyone I cared about, and when I left the Shire, left those memories behind, I watched my mother die, and then Rûna—” A sob cut her off; she pushed through it. “I can’t— if I let myself— losing you would—”

“You won’t lose me.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

Shaking her head, she met his eyes as best she could when she could barely see for tears. “You don’t know that! You can’t know, no one can!”

Tenderly, he released her hand in order to cup her cheek, voice soft. “Which is why you don’t know that anything will happen.”

A sobbing scoff escaped her. “You think I haven’t noticed how much worse you’ve gotten in the last few weeks?”

He shook his head, voice firm. “That shouldn’t affect your choi—”

“But it does!”

“Don’t worry about me!”

Despite the fire in his eyes, his arms were still gentle around her; even so, she wanted to slap him. “I can’t not!”

“Why not?!”

Finally, something in her broke. “Because I love you so much it hurts, you bloody idiot!”

He stopped moving, stopped breathing, only stared at her.

He looked as shocked hear the words as she was that she’d said them when she hadn’t even admitted it to herself yet.

Regardless, she continued. “It hurts, seeing you like this when there are parts of Erebor you can’t even walk through because they’re too narrow. It hurts, knowing that you can’t remember these dreams, remember being a Dwarf, when we wake up. It hurts, watching Thorin fade away and Kobor take his place.” Breath shaking, she sunk her hand into his beard, feeling his jaw under her palm, and ran her thumb over his bottom lip. “And nothing hurts more than the thought of watching you die, especially if you’re going to keep walking around afterwards.”

As she drew her hand away, he caught it and pulled it back to his lips with a low groan, pressing gentle kisses to her thumb, her palm, and her knuckles before holding it to his heart; fresh tears sprang to her eyes as he did, matched by his. Gently, he leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. Her eyes fell shut a beat after his, and she felt his heart and breath stutter and falter even as hers calmed.

That was her problem. In less than six months, he’d become one of the only things in her life that she could imagine always being there, despite the fact that his time was running out and she knew it. And still, still she let herself care for him. No, she wasn’t in love with him, not yet, but she did love him. She loved him as much as the Company, as much as Bard and his children, as much as any of the friends she’d lost in the Winter, and losing him would hurt as much as them, no matter that she wouldn’t trade her time…

Her eyes opened of their own accord; Thorin’s eyes were still closed, his expression taut, and she took the opportunity to drink in the sight of him as she thought. She hadn’t known that the Fell Winter was coming, or what would happen in Mirkwood. She had known that Rûna was dying, not from the first day they met, but soon enough that she’d already known by the time she grew to care for her. The only thing all three had in common was that she wouldn’t trade the time she’d had with them for anything.

If she’d known her friends would die, she’d have tried to give them food, or to persuade her grandfather to send for supplies at the first opportunity, but she would still have made friends with them, still gotten to know them. If she’d known her mother would die in Mirkwood, she would have insisted on going around, of course, but she still would have loved her, still would have wanted to be just like her. She had known Rûna would die, and she hadn’t let it stop her from getting to know her, growing to care for her, loving her as the sister she’d never had.

And now she knew Thorin’s time was running out, her time with him was running out, and she was letting fear get in the way.

She didn’t know why—

No. She did.

Her friends had only been childhood friends. Her mother, though she loved her dearly, had been her mother: every child, at least once they were grown, knew they would outlive their parents. Rûna had been the sister she’d never had, but still, she’d always known her time was short.

But Thorin was different. Her relationship with him was different, her life with him, if they had a chance to have one, would be different. The dreams gave her glimpses of what they could have together, and she wanted it. She wanted to be his wife, to wake up with him, to fall asleep with him, to spend her life with him.

She wanted to build a family with him, to watch black- and gold-haired children grow, with his heart, with her father’s mind and her mother’s spirit. She wanted to grow old with him, to share her last days with him, and despite how impossible it was, she wanted to wake in Yavanna’s Fields with him, after the End of the Song.

There was a better than likely chance she’d never have so much as a year with him. Maybe with anyone.

But was the pain of knowing they didn’t have long, the coming pain of losing him, bad enough to make any happiness they could have now worthless?

She almost had to laugh at herself. Once she put it like that, it was so obvious.

Heart fluttering, she pulled her hand out of his in order to snake her arm around the back of his neck; he only dropped his hand to her waist. She’d half-hoped he would open his eyes at that, but she could manage this. Timidly, she closed her eyes again and tilted her head up, capturing his lips in hers. He inhaled sharply, but neither pulled away nor deepened the kiss. Instead, he melted against her, slipping a hand into her hair.

In all the dreams they’d shared, they’d had kisses that were fiery, passionate, sweet, soothing, and casual, but this was the first kiss that was hopeful.

She meant this kiss as a promise, and she hoped to Eru that he knew that.

The kiss lasted half a minute, if that, and was one of the chastest they’d shared, but she still felt warm as they drew apart a few inches, just far enough for her to meet his eyes, to see the hope and the fear in his face; the sight was bittersweet, as the fear was her doing as much as the hope. “Bell, was that…”

He trailed off as though he didn’t know how to finish, and she ran her nails in reassuring circles at the nape of his neck. “Me realizing I’ve been a coward. And deciding that I’d rather have six months of happiness with you than avoid the pain altogether.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips. “You do know there’s a good chance we’ll have longer than six months.”

“And you know there’s a good chance we’ll have less. But I shouldn’t have held back. I should have been making the most of the time we have since the first dream we shared.”

But he shook his head, hand falling to the small of her back. “No, you needed the time, don’t blame yourself for that.”

She raised a disbelieving brow. “You’re glad I’ve kept you at arm’s reach for months?”

He shrugged, a faint blush creeping shyly above his beard. “I’d rather you took your time to make a decision you’ll stand by than decide quickly and change your mind in a month.”

When he put it like that, she couldn’t fault his reasoning. He was still blushing lightly, and she stroked a finger over the color, not sure why she found it so adorable; his smile widened a fraction as she did, and she smiled to match him.

 

The music was louder again. Not as loud as before, but louder than it had been for weeks; it was getting harder and harder to ignore the parallels.

She and Thorin began sharing dreams and the music began to grow. Thorin told her how he felt, she shied away, and the music began to dim. She came to her senses and let herself hope, and the music was back.

The only thing that didn’t make sense was that the whispering was louder now, as well, enough that she could hear it over the music, though she still couldn’t make out the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, but hopefully the chapter makes up for it? Enjoy the happy moment while you can, though.  
> (It won't last.)  
> À bientôt!


	26. November 5, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smaug transformed him into a hideous beast, and placed a powerful spell on the mountain and all within her.

“… perstition, but it’s part of what makes us who we are. And to those Dwarves blessed with Ones, Mahal gives them the knowledge of it, of their One’s nakhrâm. He weaves it into their souls with mithril, to wait until the time is right for it to be uncovered.”

Bell realized her mouth was hanging open a fraction, and closed it, blinking. Even if Diarmait hadn’t been more completely himself for more than a month, his account had been almost reverent, almost like a song.

He shifted uncomfortably, fins flattening. “There are more than a few mining analogies I could use, but I don’t want to bore you further.”

A teary laugh burst from her, and she covered her mouth. “You haven’t been, not at all. I can’t really say I’d like to hear the analogies, since I wouldn’t understand a word, but…” He chuckled, and she trailed off. Gandalf’s words came back to her, his insistence that Diarmait had been telling her things no Dwarf ever told anyone not of their race, and his nudge for her to do the same.

She’d been debating it with herself for close to a month, keeping the risks in mind, but was there truly a risk? There was no one she trusted more, no one she wanted, had ever wanted, to tell more.

A tiny corner of her mind impassively reminded her that he couldn’t tell anyone, anyway.

Nerves spurring her heart a twinge faster, she decided. “Hobbits don’t have anything so… so beautiful, I think. Although…” Her courage nearly failed her, but Diarmait settled his head on his paws, giving her every scrap of his attention, and he was so completely himself that her nerves eased.

(For an instant, she looked into his eyes and she half-saw a Dwarf in his place, but she shook off the fantasy and put it out of her mind. Diarmait was what mattered now, and she wouldn’t disparage him by pretending he wasn’t.)

A shy, confiding smile creeping onto her lips, she held his eyes even as she thought back to her childhood, the stories she’d sworn never to tell anyone who wasn’t a Hobbit. “…there’s a story. Perhaps it was true once, but it’s so old and it’s been through so many tellers that I don’t know if much of history is left, just a fairy tale.” The half-truth came to her lips unbidden, but she didn’t take it back, only resolved to tell him the full truth in the future, if they had one. “It’s… it’s not something we tell others. Like True Names.”

His eyes widened a fraction, and he seemed to grasp the gravity of it. He didn’t speak, only nodded solemnly.

“Long ago, before Hobbits hid from the other races— well, first—” Too much rushing to her mind at once, she broke off with a huff. “Oh, I’m telling this all wrong.” He snorted; she shook her head, half-chiding, half-apologetic. “I’m paraphrasing dreadfully.” With a deep inhale, she found the right words, and she began again, falling easily into the same melodic lilt her mother had always used for the Old Tales.

“Long ago, Hobbits were formed from the light and the soil and the rain, and our make…” After a moment, she deliberately rephrased the half-truth. She didn’t want to lie to him about this. “She Who Made Us, Yavanna, taught us to sing.”

Thorin inhaled sharply, but said nothing when she paused.

“Yavanna taught us to use what comprised us as guides: the rain as a melody to follow; light, breaking through clouds and shining in the water, as a rhythm; and always, always with the foundation of the soil under our feet, Yavanna’s heartbeat itself, to set the tempo. But one day she came to us, brought a few of us to a new place, where the music was different. Where the melody was made of the whistling of wind and the crackling of fire, the rhythm was in the dancing of shadows, and the heartbeat under our feet echoed through caverns…”

For the first time, she realized the similarities between the tale and the mountain.

Shaking herself, she resumed the story. “And the Hobbits, they left, they returned to the place we were made, where their fam…” Catching herself reverting to half-truths again, she smiled slightly and backtracked. “They returned to the Valley of Anduin, where their families waited, and where Hobbits lived for an Age, an Age, and half an Age before settling in the Shire. But the Hobbits who returned to Anduin carried the mountains with them. They realized that they could still hear the crackling of fire in their stoves, the wind as it whistled through the trees. Their hearts beat with the rhythm of shadows, and they could still feel the stone’s heartbeat, echoing deep under Yavanna’s and with Yavanna’s, below the soil, the foundation of everything they loved. And when they returned to the mountain, they realized there was another melody, another voice, the voice of the mountain, and…

“Well,” she blushed lightly; this section of the story had always been more sentimental than she preferred, but she couldn’t leave it out, not when she was telling it to a Dwarf. “According to the story, only one of the Hobbits could hear the words of the mountain’s song, because she gave her heart so completely to the mountain and its king and its people that the mountain gave her its heart in return. The mountain sang and she shared its song with everyone who cared to hear. A song of stone and soil, light and shadow, rain and fire.”

For a moment, she stared at nothing in particular, half-remembering an otherworldly song, without words but those she gave it. “There are a few stories that say the mountain’s song was the most beautiful thing any of them had ever heard, even more so than the songs Yavanna taught them.” She smiled suddenly. “Of course, the stories say that the Hobbits who loved the mountain’s song more than Yavanna’s were the ones who’d never quite felt at home in the Valley, so they may have been biased.”

Glancing up, she met Diarmait’s eyes, stilling to see the quietude there. Quietly, he shook his head. “I think you do your race a grave injustice. In your voice… I think I could hear those songs.” Even as she blushed, she couldn’t mistake the truth in his bearing. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more beautiful.”

Faced with that sincerity, she couldn’t lie to him. “…If I say something utterly ridiculous, will you swear not to laugh?”

“Tonight, yes.”

She laughed shortly at the half-joke, but she sobered quickly, nerves returning. “There are times when… In dreams, or when I’m in the caverns under the city, or sometimes… sometimes when the Company’s all together and they’re all talking and laughing, underneath, in the echoes, I can… or I think I can hear… I can hear music. Like singing, almost, nearly too faint to hear.” He only stared at her, and she ducked her head self-consciously. “Not that I’m hearing voices or anything, it’s not even really music, it—”

“I believe you.”

Her eyes snapped to him, her mouth falling open. “…You…”

He huffed faintly, a hint of humor in his eyes. “I don’t understand in the slightest, but I believe you.”

Unable to resist the urge to move closer, she scooted over to lean against his side, smothering the tiny disappointment when she felt scales rather than skin or fabric. “You think it’s real?”

For an instant, he hesitated. “I think it’s something Dwarves could never understand, or perceive.”

It wasn’t an answer, really, but it was more than she’d expected. Some fearful part of her had thought he would think she was mad, and she leaned her head against his side in wordless thanks, eyes falling closed within a minute.

 

Bell was clinging to his hand; not as much as she would in the waking world, but enough that he couldn’t resist the urge to tip toward the edge of the platform for a moment. She yelped, then smacked his side as he laughed. In the waking world, he’d have never played at such a thing, and would have begged her forgiveness if he were ever stupid enough to do it anyway, but their wanderings through Erebor over the past month had shown that while she still was frightened of heights, they didn’t terrify her as much when it was only a dream.

Still, her action had loosened her hold on his hand, and he pulled his hand out of her grip entirely; she grabbed reflexively onto his jacket, a scowl forming, but he put his hand around her waist and her frown vanished. Chuckling, he kissed the top of her head. He had to consciously keep from pulling her closer; according to her, she was nearly back to a proper Hobbit plumpness, but even so, she was slight enough that his fingertips could reach her opposite hip if he stretched. He didn’t at the moment, though. The past month had been bliss, as far as the dreams went, and he had no wish to spoil that.

In the waking world, things had only gotten worse. He’d actually snapped at Bell two days prior, both with words and with teeth, and though in the dreams she’d reassured him she didn’t hold it against him, in the waking world she was hurt, he knew. In his more lucid moments (listening to her story about Hobbits had been the first truly lucid moment he’d had in weeks, but there had been times he grew close), he felt wretched for it, but the moment always passed before he could beg her forgiveness like he wanted to when he was sane.

Even the name she’d given him barely made a difference anymore.

She had to leave. If he could have, he would have flown to the ends of the earth to keep her safe from him, but Erebor was the only place strong enough to hold him. So she would have to leave the mountain. He would never be able to live with himself if he harmed her, but what was so much worse was the thought that he wouldn’t have a choice. That all that would be left would be a barbarous imitation of him, without any conscience, any empathy.

A monster.

The problem was, he knew her too well to think she’d leave on her own. If he gave any hint of what he planned, she’d outsmart him, find a way around his provisions. He didn’t know what to do, and he was running out of time to figure it out.

But he had all day, every day to think about it. This time, these dreams, were for him and Bell both, and he wouldn’t jeopardize her happiness. He wouldn’t do that for anything.

They slowed to a stop at the same time, looking at the ruins of the throne. A moment passed.

“What is it with Dwarves and sheer drops?”

He snorted, then thought about it. “…I don’t actually know. Although I’d guess because it puts us on even ground with Elves.”

She tilted her head curiously. “Why would you say that?”

He grinned at her. “Well, that’s why I enjoy flying over Mirkwood.” After a honking snort, she dissolved into snickers he couldn’t help but join.

A few minutes later, they were mostly calm again, though her voice still shook with otherwise-inaudible giggles. “You know, I’d really like to say that Hobbits would never be that petty… but I’d probably do the same thing.”

That set them both off again, and it was several more minutes before they calmed again, and focused on the reason why they were there. She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze, smiling up at him sympathetically. Turning his hand over to lace his fingers in hers, he squeezed back and focused.

A ripple spread over their surroundings, and the debris cleared. Another, and the landing was whole. Another, and a thigh-high railing ran along all the edges. Thigh-high on him, anyway; on Bell it was waist-height, and on most other Hobbits, it would be even higher. Bell stifled a gasp at the sight of the railing; he’d designed it to look like a flower garden, albeit a two-dimensional one, with rose-gold flowers atop the ivy.

“Thorin…” Her voice sounded thick, and he glanced down to see that her eyes were welling up as she looked over the metalwork. He half-expected her to say something more, but she only laid a hand over his heart.

Covering her hand with his, he nodded to the railing. “What do you think?”

She sniffled quietly, then bobbed her head to the side. “Well, daisies don’t actually grow like that.”

Chuckling, he shrugged. “It’s only an idea. Between my smithing and your gardening, I doubt it would be too difficult to design something accurate and functional.”

“Still, even if it were plain brick, Thorin. Thank you.”

Softly, he kissed the top of her head again, and indulged himself slightly, moving his hand down to her hip and pulling her a bit closer; she shivered, but only leaned her head against his side. “I don’t want you to be uneasy anywhere in Erebor. It’s your home as much as mine. No one should be afraid in their own home.”

His mood fell, realizing how much his words applied to himself. After several moments, a shiver passed through the room, snapping him out of his thoughts, and when he looked up, the railings were occasionally dotted with exaggeratedly-cutesy, life-size sculptures of him as a child. Those were enough to make him laugh, but it was the incongruity of their size compared to the paper-thin railing that sent him into guffaws.

She didn’t say a word, didn’t even laugh with him, but when he finally calmed, she was watching him with a soft smile; their eyes met and she shrugged. “Good to see you laugh.” He smiled back at her, but the throne pulled his attention no matter how he tried to look away. She took his hand again and squeezed gently. “We don’t have to do this if you’d rather not.”

He shook his head immediately. “No. No, I need to.” Needed to do the same thing with the throne that she had with his grandfather’s suite: find a way to see what it could be, what he could make it, rather than what it had been. Holding onto her hand like a lifeline, he exhaled slowly, letting the throne ripple into perfect condition, just the way it had been during his grandfather’s reign, with one exception.

Bell nodded to the empty slot in the throne’s centerpiece. “What goes there?”

He swallowed. “The Arkenstone.” She didn’t say a word, but he could guess what she was thinking. “I will, I just… I need a minute.” One restoration at a time was enough to handle.

Sighing quietly, she squeezed his hand again. “What I said still stands. If you want to wait…”

“I don’t.” A few moments passed without any response. “You think I’m being irrational, don’t you?”

“No.” Jaw set, she moved in front of him; her hands carded through his beard, tilting his head down so he had no choice but to meet her eyes. “Never, Thorin.” She sighed, eyebrows quirking up as they knotted together. “I think the Arkenstone is your precipice. You had a horrible experience with it, and now you’re justifiably wary.”

As much as he wished he could leave it at that… “…But you still think I’m wrong.”

She sighed again, eyes troubled. “I think the Arkenstone is more than you’ve seen of it. I know what it did before, but there’s so much we don’t know. And…” She shook her head, eyes falling to his chest. “…I can’t explain it, but I know that the Arkenstone isn’t dangerous.”

He couldn’t help a slight scoff; she frowned at him. “I know how it sounds, Thorin. But I know, the same way I know I love you, the same way I know you love me, the same way I know that my mother would laugh herself hoarse if she could see me now, I know that the Arkenstone isn’t evil.”

Yearning for the conviction in her voice fluttering weakly through the disquiet, he rested his hands on her hips. “I hope you’re right.”

The only answer she gave was to tug him further down and lean her forehead against his, then to wrap her arms around him, but it spoke volumes. His breath shook in his chest as his eyes closed.

How did she always do that? How did she always reach through all his turmoil and seem to touch his heart? However she did it, he could only thank Eru with every fiber of his being for sending her into his life.

But as much as he wanted to stay like that, with her, content and at peace, for eternity, life wasn’t so kind. He would have to deal with it sooner or later, and he would rather it be sooner.

It took him several moments to find the courage to even think of conjuring up the Arkenstone, and several moments more to actually accomplish it. He pulled back from Bell just far enough to rest his chin on the top of her head, and an instant and an eternity later, the Arkenstone shimmered into its place on the throne. It was exactly as iridescent and unworldly as he remembered, but with Bell in his arms, her heartbeat pattering lightly against his chest, he couldn’t fear it like he had before.

It was the reason his grandfather had gone mad, but it was only a stone. Perhaps she was right, perhaps there was more to the story than he knew.

Perhaps there was nothing to fear after all.

In any case, he felt nothing more to see the Arkenstone than he did to see the throne room as a whole: uneasy, but with the hope that one day, the scars his childhood had left would heal completely.

It wasn’t peace, not yet, but maybe soon.

Her arms tightened around him, and she smiled warmly at him when he met her eyes; returning the smile, he leaned down and kissed her gently. Carding a hand through her hair, he drew back and took her hand, glancing over the room one last time. Nodding to himself, he began to move toward the exit. “Come on; there are still a few balconies I haven’t shown you yet.”

But her hand slipped out of his.

Frowning, he turned back, a chill running down his spine as he saw that she was looking at the throne. “Bell?”

She didn’t respond, only stood there; after a moment, slowly, she moved forward, away from him.

“Bell?” Cold panic filled him as she didn’t even falter. Her movements were strange, more fluid than she ever moved, as though she were sleepwalking. He felt frozen, wishing desperately to stop her, but unable to move in the slightest; it was the Arkenstone, he knew it, it was bewitching her right in front of him and he. couldn’t. move.

When she reached the throne, she didn’t stop, instead climbing onto it, one hand reaching toward the stone, and suddenly whatever had petrified Thorin was gone.

He leapt forward with an anguished yell—

Her fingers met the stone—

—He lurched forward, one hand, no, one paw, outstretched. He crashed onto his side, feeling more uncoordinated on four limbs than he had since the curse was first cast, but scrambled to his feet again in a blink. Somehow Bell was still asleep, and like a thunderbolt, he remembered everything.

He remembered holding her, laughing with her, dancing with her, kissing her.

He remembered falling in love with her, and learning that she returned his feelings.

He remembered being himself, not the monster the curse was turning him into.

For an instant, he could only stare at his One.

It was an instant too long.

Thorin blinked and shook himself. What had he been thinking of? And why was he staring at his property instead of dragging it back to the treasury, where it belonged, where chattel belon—

No! He snapped at nothing, biting back a growl. She wasn’t his property, she was no one’s, no one’s but his— No. She wasn’t anyone’s but her own.

Uneasily, he curled around her, but deliberately turned his head away from her. He didn’t know what he’d do if he saw her as soon as he woke.

 

Bell stumbled as the Arkenstone disappeared, taking her surroundings with it; the nothing-world she’d dreamt of so often took its place, but this time it was completely silent.

The utter noiselessness was eerie; she had to swallow several times before she could get out more than a croak. “Hello?”

A beat passed.

“Hello.”

She jolted; the voice had been hers, but it had come from everywhere and nowhere, and it had not been her. “Hello? Where are you?” She waited for several moments, but there was no response. “Who are you? Do you know what this place is?”

“Who… what. Know… this place. “

Bell’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. If you can speak, why aren’t you answering me? And why is your voice so like mine?”

“I know you. You know… Can speak, your voice. Don’t… mine.”

An idea niggled at her. “Can you only repeat my words?”

“Only,” the voice agreed.

Bell blinked. Well… well. That was… hm. “Yes, no, yours, his, hers, the, is, are, was, were, they, them, us, we, all, be, to, a, an, good, bad, time, long, short, less, more, not, should, would, um… Erebor.” Having exhausted all the words that leapt to mind, she waited for a moment. When nothing was forthcoming, she sighed. “Where are you?”

“Not.”

She frowned. “What do you mean? That you aren’t anywhere?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re speaking to me.”

“Yes. Your voice. Your words.”

“Like an echo.” She didn’t actually expect a response to that.

She was surprised when one came. “Yes. Erebor.”

It took an effort for her to unclench her jaw; this method of communication was profoundly limited. “What does that mean? That you’re an echo of Erebor?”

“No. An echo of you. Erebor, me.”

Bell stilled. “You can’t mean that you literally are Erebor.”

“I can.”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Why not?”

She sputtered for a moment. “Just— Because! Mountains can’t talk!”

“I don’t talk. I echo.”

“A mountain can’t think, either! A mountain isn’t alive!”

“You know this? Because…?”

Taken aback, it was a moment before she could respond. “I’m not sure how to feel about a literal mountain sassing me.”

“You do.”

Despite herself, the warm tone brought a smile. “You speak as though we’re old friends.”

“Are we not? You know me, not long, but… time.”

“I’ve only been in the mountain for a few months, and this is the first time we’ve spoken.” What she’d just said occurred to her, and she had to laugh at the insanity of it all. “I actually believe you’re Erebor. Yavanna help me, I do.”

Her laugh repeated distantly. “But you speak to me time and time. No answering, but I understand you.”

“When? In these dreams?”

“Yes.”

“What about the dreams I share with Thorin? Did you cause those?”

“Yes and no. Dreams are yours and his. Long time, with no help. Months and months. Time Thorin does not…”

“Time Thorin doesn’t have.”

“Yes.”

Even after figuring out what Erebor meant, the confirmation sent a chill through Bell. “Is he safe? What happened when I touched the Arkenstone?”

“Thorin is safe. Arkenstone is safe, here, me.”

Helplessly, she sighed. “But what do you mean? That the Arkenstone is here? That the Arkenstone is you?”

“The… of the mountain.”

The inflections were familiar. “The heart of the mountain?”

“My heart, yes. My voice. Me. Mountains have…”

“Every mountain has one?”

“No. Thorin and Thorin, them.”

“Dwarves?”

“Yes. Mountains that have Dwarves, have an Arkenstone.”

Bell shook her head. “But the Arkenstone, your Arkenstone, it’s the only one they know of, the only one ever found!”

“The only one found.”

“What are they for?”

“For you. Um, Yavanna, you… Dwarves.”

Hesitantly, she asked, “Hobbits or Mahal?"

“Yes. Mahal and Yavanna, Dwarves and Hobbits. Hobbits in mountains, not possible with no Arkenstone. Voice.”

“Hobbits are your voice or Hobbits hear your voice? And what do you mean, ‘not possible’? Do we need something from Arkenstones?”

“Hobbits are and hear the voice of the mountain. Need… in mountains.”

She huffed; clearly, she should have brought a dictionary. “Need… what? Light? Warmth? Sun? Plants? Gardens? Food?”

Her laugh sounded again. “Not food. But sunlight, yes, light and warmth. Only a short time alive, with no sunlight. But a long time alive, with an Arkenstone in the mountain. Long and long time, with Hobbits and Dwarves— not like in a garden, like you and Thorin.”

“Like…” Heat pooled in her cheeks. “Married? Or in love?”

“Married.”

Her blush faded as Erebor’s words sank in. “Wait— Do you mean that my life will be longer with Thorin, if the curse is broken? We’ll have longer than a handful of decades?”

It sounded too good to be true, but Erebor responded with a smile in her voice. “Yes. From Yavanna, long time with Dwarves, in love. As Yavanna is in love with Mahal.”

That… No, that meant… “…Is ‘Mahal’ another name for Aulë?”

Because that would mean… that would…

Heart hammering in her chest, if they’d been anywhere but a dream-world, Bell never would have heard the matter-of-fact “Yes.”

Her breath left her in a rush as her head reeled. Hobbits knew that Yavanna was their maker, though they feigned ignorance, but she’d had no idea Dwarves were made by Aulë. And if Dwarves had been made by Aulë, then that meant that the difference between them couldn’t be as great as she’d always assumed.

She’d never dared hope— but now— now—

“Can Hobbits and Dwarves have children together?” The question came out in a jumbled rush, but Erebor’s voice was even warmer than before as she answered.

“Yes.”

A half-sob burst from her before she could stop it, tears running down her face as she laughed. She’d never dared hope, hadn’t hoped for such since before the Fell Winter, but now—

—But that assumed they’d have time.

“Is there a way to break the curse?”

“Yes.”

Wiping her cheeks, Bell shook her head. “But how? He said all that had to happen was that we had to fall in love, but I do love him, in the dreams and in the waking world, and he’s still cursed.”

“The curse is not so… You have to speak his Name.”

“In the waking world, you mean?” Another sob stuck in her throat. “Even Gandalf won’t say his name there— how am I meant to find it?”

“Not ‘Thorin’. Find his Name. You know it. I’ve spoken it to you here, in full, in these dreams. Speak his Name in the waking world, and the curse will break.”

It took Bell a few moments to understand. “The Khuzdûl I was hearing? I don’t remember it; Bofur’s lessons have all been for conversation, I don’t have any idea what it could m…” But she did. Thorin had said it was something like ‘unselfish’, like ‘Diarmait’.

“You don’t need to understand it, only to speak it. You know it. Find it.”

Bell felt something touch her shoulder; she was waking up. “Am I his One? Is he my True Love? Are True Loves even real? Did I save Frerin in that dream? How? What did you mean that you did and didn’t cause the dreams?”

Erebor spoke quickly, seeming as desperate to impart as much information as possible as Bell was to hear it. “Yes, you are. Yes, he is. Yes, they are. Yes, you did; every Hobbit has one thing they can do to time, only one, no more. The dreams are from Yavanna, her Arkenstone for her children, to help you love your Loves as Yavanna loves Aulë; I helped them along. Find his Name. He doesn’t have long.”

The dream began to fade in earnest, other sensations, of warmth and stone and scales, growing more difficult to ignore, and the last thing Bell heard before the dream faded away entirely was a whispered, desolate, “I don’t have long.”

Bell opened her eyes to see Thorin coiled tightly around her, but even that didn’t ease the panic coursing through her. Pushing herself upright, she tried desperately to think of what had her so frightened; all she could remember was a vague feeling of love and family, and the conviction that it was in danger, that her family was in danger, her family— her father—

“I have to go to Lake-town!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part Two.  
> Notes: 1) I've always kind of subconsciously wondered what would have happened if Belle did touch the rose in the movie. No clue about that 'verse, but in this version... 2) Part of me feels like this is the exposition chapter, but... eh. A story as short as this, ya gotta have one.  
> Stuff's really going to get moving from here on out. Enjoy!  
> À bientôt!


	27. November 6, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grab your sword, grab your bow, praise the Lord and here we go!

For a long moment, Diarmait only stared at her, a war in his eyes that she didn’t, couldn’t, understand. As she waited, her dread only grew, until she felt she’d burst with it. She didn’t know how, she didn’t know why, but she knew her father was in danger.

Finally, Diarmait nodded and stood, eyes bright. “Pack what you’ll need; we go now.”

Relief stabbed through her, somehow making her dread worse, and she bolted into her bedchamber just long enough to throw on her mithril; she also grabbed an overshirt, but that she buttoned as she ran out of the suite. After six months of living in the mountain, navigating to the common room was easy, and she only darted in to grab her jacket from where Gandalf was mending it before darting out again and using the wing Diarmait offered as a boost to vault onto his back; flying was terrifying, but she knew in her gut that time was short.

He only glanced back long enough to make sure she was holding tight before he began running, leaping, and flying through the halls; the speed alone was enough to make her glad she’d taken the time to put on her jacket, even before they emerged into the frigid air outside the gates. The cold took her breath away, or was that flying on his back rather than in his claws? She didn’t know, and at the moment, she didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to Lake-town.

So she wasn’t happy when he veered to the side and spiraled down.

Her protests were ripped away by the wind; once he landed, she jumped down in order to yell at him to his face, but she was distracted by the sight of her father, lying unconscious a few feet in front of Diarmait.

A sob tore from her throat as she ran to him; even as her eyes and throat burned, some detached part of her mind was able to examine him. Her hands shook, but she felt for his pulse anyway, and her relief at finding it was only outweighed by her terror at his overall condition.

Diarmait coiled around them, blocking the wind. “How is he?”

He was blurry when she looked up; she hadn’t realized she was crying. “He needs help now.”

He stiffened. “Back at Erebor?”

For a heartbeat, she considered it, but she shook her head a moment later. “I don’t have any supplies ready; we’d have to collect them, and that’s time he can’t spare. But the supplies will be there in Lake-town, I’m sure of it.”

“You know I’ll have to carry him in my claws?”

The thought made her slightly ill, but she knew it was the only way. “I do. He must have used a boat to get to shore; if you can spot it, set us down there.”

He tilted his head. “I could take you directly to Bard’s house.”

“Which would mean everyone in Lake-town seeing you, and—” And that was a more terrifying thought than she’d thought possible. He wasn’t invulnerable, not by any means, and Men lashed out when they were afraid, far more so than Hobbits, and they would be afraid of him. She couldn’t risk losing him, not when her father’s fate was still uncertain. Losing one would be agony. Losing both of them at once would kill her. “—and the commotion would slow me down too much.”

There was something in his expression she didn’t understand, but he nodded and held out his paws. As gently as she could, she lifted her father and placed him in Diarmait’s hold, holding back tears all the while because she shouldn’t have been able to pick him up so easily, then climbed onto his back again.

This time, he stood on his hind legs for a moment before pushing off, and this time he kept low to the ground, low enough not to easily be seen from a distance. More than ever, Bell was glad for the cloud-covered night.

But dread was still churning in her gut.

 

Thorin couldn’t look at Bell as he left her on the shore with her father. He could hardly bear to think of leaving her, let alone actually do it, but he gritted his teeth and he flew back to Erebor with none of the caution he’d shown in flying away from it. If he lingered at all, allowed himself any second thoughts, he’d snatch her up and haul her back to the treasury like so much chattel.

He’d barely managed not to roar a denial at her when she asked to go back to Lake-town, barely managed not to take her and her father both back when he’d looked at them, hair shining in the dim light like so much metal. If he looked back at them, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giving in to the dragon, to Kobor.

If he even stopped to think about what he was doing, he’d give in to Kobor.

So he flew back as quickly as he could.

So he stopped just inside the gates.

So he took hold of the half-intact pillars and hauled them over the balustrades and against the break in the gates, blocking any path into the mountain.

He didn’t stop to admire his work.

He didn’t stop to explain to the Company.

He didn’t stop at all, for fear of losing the tenuous hold he had on his sanity.

Instead, he hurried to the treasury, but he didn’t stay there.

Instead, he grabbed the Arkenstone and left, but he didn’t go to the common room.

Instead, he went directly to the one place he trusted not to remind him of Bell in the slightest. He went to the throne.

And there, he placed the Arkenstone on the seat, and he settled down in front of it. He was losing the battle between Dwarf and dragon, sense and insanity. He was going to cling to his sanity for as long as he could, but when he fell, he wanted the first thing he saw to be the Arkenstone. It was dim now, the light nearly gone, but it was still beautiful. The only hope there was that he wouldn’t go after Bell, or her father, rested on his being so distracted by the Arkenstone that he forgot about her.

Slowly, noise filtered in, a cacophony of clanking metal on stone, that slowed and quieted as it neared him. Frerin stopped at the edge of his vision. “Thorin, where’s Bell?”

It hurt, hearing her name, but it hurt, hearing his own when it could very well be the last day ‘Thorin’ lived. With his emotions churning as they were, he didn’t trust himself not to break down if he explained completely. The only answer he gave was, “Gone. She’s gone.”

Even that much would have been enough to send him to tears if he could weep. Frerin seemed to understand that, as he asked no more questions. He only sat stiffly against the throne, holding silent vigil with Thorin, and the rest of the Company followed suit.

“You should go.”

Dwalin scoffed discordantly. “You’re our King, Thorin, curse be blasted. We’re staying with you.”

“Until the end,” Ori agreed.

Throat tight, Thorin could only bow his head to them, more humbled by their words than he could ever remember being before the curse.

He didn’t deserve such loyalty.

He knew from experience they’d only laugh in his face and continue on as they were if he said that out loud.

If he was meant to die, this was the way he would choose: surrounded by his family, his friends. But not Bell. The only reason he could accept this fate at all was that he knew she’d be safe this way. He’d already hurt her. He didn’t want her last memories of him to be as a monster.

He wanted his last thoughts to be of her.

 

Sigrid’s head snapped up; another impact thumped against the door and startled her into breathing again. She hadn’t realized she’d stopped.

Tilda stirred on her lap, but Sigrid shushed her gently, lifting her just enough to shift out from under her and lay her down on the bench. Bain rubbed his eyes; Sigrid gestured for him to be quiet, picking up a knife from the table.

She’d lost too many people already; she wouldn’t lose her siblings, too.

Someone jiggled the handle; carefully, Sigrid edged toward the door, doing her best to avoid making any noise. The wood was rough under her feet, and her heart was pounding enough to drown out the ever-present sound of waves lapping against the house’s supports, but it wasn’t quite loud enough to cover the creak as she misstepped.

She froze.

A dozen rapid heartbeats passed.

Quietly, three knocks sounded. A moment later, they repeated. Steeling herself, Sigrid opened the door a crack, knife at the ready; it was safe to say that the last person she expected to see was Bell.

Softly, the Hobbit hissed, “I swear, I’ll explain later, but for now, open. the. door.”

Belatedly, Sigrid realized Bungo was slumped against the door, head lolling on his shoulder; stifling her first impulse to jerk the door open, she swore under her breath and tossed aside the knife, sliding a hand behind Bungo’s back as she eased the door open. Between her and Bell, they kept him from hitting the floor, and Bell darted into the room to clear off the table while Sigrid gathered Bungo into her arms.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Bain stood, alarm washing away his fatigue; Tilda bolted awake as Bell worked.

“Later, Bain— Tilda, I need yarrow and aconite, quickly!” Gently, Sigrid laid Bungo down; Bell was examining him before he was even fully on the table.

Even through her worry, though, Sigrid couldn’t help but notice the changes in Bell. Compared to the rest of them, she was almost fat, and was certainly glowing with health. Her clothes were finer than anything the Master had ever worn, and fit her more snuggly than she’d ever been comfortable with before, or at least as far as Sigrid could remember. Unlike her usual twists, her hair was in a thick braid, though she still had it coiled at the back of her head, and it was clearly far longer than it had been before, longer than Sigrid would have expected after half a year.

Bell called, no, ordered Sigrid over, and she put her musings out of her mind. Anything else could wait until Bungo was out of danger.

Much, much later, Sigrid waited with bated breath as Bell’s hands and eyes ghosted over her still-unconscious father. “…Well?”

For a few moments, Bell didn’t respond. Sigrid was about to ask again when she let out a shuddering breath and slumped onto the bench. “He’s on the mend. I think. It’ll be another hour or two before I can be sure, but…” Eyes shining, she cut herself off with a quick head-shake, then grabbed Bain and Tilda by the sleeves and pulled them into a hug. “Mahal’s Forge, I missed you all.”

Tilda returned the hug, brow furrowed. “Whose forge?”

Huffing out a laugh, Bell shook her head again. “No one. Never mind.” Stretching up on her toes to kiss Bain’s temple, she cleared her throat. “Now, what on Arda were you all doing up at an hour like that? And where’s Bard? I’d expected him the commotion to wake him up, but obviously he isn’t here.”

Sigrid tensed; to tell or not? Bell did deserve to know, but there was nothing she could do, in any case. “He’s out. But where have you been? You look like you’ve been feasting and fêting for the past few months.”

She didn’t look satisfied with the answer, but she smiled at the question. “That’s a long story, and I doubt you’re going to believe any of it.”

Sigrid did not.

“You can’t be serious. The dragon who abducted you in the first place, threatened to abduct your father, threatened to burn Lake-town to the ground, just… just brought you back here and left.”

Bell nodded, stifling a yawn. “And I told you, his name is Diarmait.”

Bain’s head was drooping, but he jolted upright again at Tilda’s exclamation. “And he’s really cursed? Like a fairy-tale prince?”

Bell smiled tenderly and stroked a hand over Tilda’s cheek. “King, but yes, as are the Company.”

Sigrid couldn’t help but scoff. “You can’t expect us to believe that.”

Bell raised a quelling brow; a thousand memories of lessons rushed back at once, and for the first time in months, Sigrid could breathe without feeling Bell’s absence like a weight around her neck. “It’s true, so yes, I do.”

“But—”

“Sigrid, what’s that?” Tilda pointed curiously behind Sigrid; turning, Sigrid’s heart nearly stopped to see something moving in Bell’s jacket.

Instinctively, Sigrid backed away from the still-moving lump in the jacket; Bell sounded almost awed. “You must be joking. Bifur?!”

Sigrid’s eyes snapped to Bell and followed her as she strode forward; what sort of a word was ‘bifur’? Just as she was about to voice the question, harsh, angry-sounding noises came from the lump, and her words turned to a strangled shout.

Huffing, Bell shook her head, dropping to her knees beside the jacket and fishing around in the folds. “I can’t make out a word yet, hang on—” With a victorious grin, she lifted one edge of the jacket. “There you are. What were you saying?”

A glint of light in the dark was all she saw at first. As the noises repeated, this time discernible as words in a language Sigrid had never heard before, a small, wooden, thing tottered out from under the jacket. Sigrid’s legs wobbled, and then she was sitting down.

Bell shot a worried glance at her, but reluctantly looked away again when Sigrid waved off her concern. “Well, then, thank you for that; you’re certainly more convincing proof than anything I could come up with. But what are you doing here at all? You know how Bofur and Bombur will worry.”

As the… as Bifur answered, sounding amused, Bain sat beside Sigrid; her arm snaked around his shoulders automatically. Tilda, meanwhile, was creeping slowly closer to Bell and Bifur, a delighted grin growing the closer she drew.

Abruptly, Bell pinked. “Ah.” Bain made a questioning noise; Bell glanced at them sheepishly. “Evidently, Bifur was helping Gandalf repair my jacket when I grabbed it and he didn’t have time to get out before Diarmait and I left the mountain.”

He said something, laughter in his voice.

Bell protested wordlessly. “I was worried about my father!”

He said something conciliatory.

“Why am I not surprised? But I am sorry, truly.” She added something in the same language he was speaking, the syllables tripping smoothly out the way Lake-town names never quite had. “Especially since I wasn’t thinking about getting back to Erebor when Diarmait dropped me off, so I’ve no idea how to reach him or get his attention so we can go back.”

“You’re leaving us again?”

Bell’s eyes snapped to Tilda; feeling the same hurt that was in Tilda’s voice in her gut, Sigrid was somewhat gratified by how immediately she pulled the not-much-smaller-girl into a tight hug. “No, a leanbh. I’m never leaving you again if I can help it, but the world isn’t always so kind.” Drawing back slightly, Bell wiped Tilda’s cheeks gently, glancing at Bain and Sigrid occasionally as she continued. “The curse… I think I have an idea how to break it, but I have to get back to Erebor to try. If things had still been like they were three months ago, I wouldn’t hesitate to take you all, and Father, and Bard, with me back again, but now I’m not sure. The curse is cruel. It’s turning Diarmait into the monster we thought he was at first, and what’s worse, he knows it. It’s too quick to stop and too slow to be unnoticeable, and there’s not much left of the man I’ve been getting to know.

“But he’s my friend. You all know how much I love you, how much I love your father, how much I love mine. You know what I’ll do for the people I care for. Diarmait is my friend, and he’s dying. I have to do everything I can for him. No one deserves to die like that, to be erased and know there’ll be a monster left in your place.”

For a few moments after she finished, no one spoke. For her part, Sigrid was trying to remember if she’d ever once seen Bell look as openly earnest. Part of it was how the shape of her face was softened, overall, by the weight she’d gained, but the rest of it was the way she said ‘Diarmait’s’ name like it was precious, the soft, fond way she called him her friend, the grief in her voice as she spoke of his death.

Sigrid believed he was her friend. She wasn’t sure that was all he was.

Taking a deep breath, Bell dropped a kiss to Tilda’s hair and drew back again. “Now, where is Bard? Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t answer my question before.” This time, Sigrid could feel Bain stiffen beside her, and Bell’s expression hardened as her eyes flicked between them. “What’s happened?”

Sigrid hesitated, fumbling for the right words. Bain took them out of her mouth. “Da’s been arrested!”

He clapped a hand over his mouth a moment later, but Bell’s expression hardened further. “On what grounds?”

Reluctantly, Sigrid answered. “…For your murder. You know how the Master is when he doesn’t get his way. For a few months, he didn’t do anything, but rumors have been spreading since you left, and I suppose he finally just decided he had enough public opinion on his side to get away with this.”

Bain leaned earnestly forward. “He hasn’t been in custody long— he was only arrested two days ago. Bungo only said he was going to try and ‘fix this’ before he ran off; we had no idea what he was planning.”

Bell’s expression softened for a moment. “No, I didn’t think you had; impulsivity is a hereditary trait, it seems, and I didn’t get all of it from my mother.” After a moment, she stood and moved to Bungo again. “When is the trial?”

“Later today.”

Even more quietly than Sigrid had spoken, Bain corrected, “I’m not sure, but I think it might have started already.”

Bell stilled, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. For several moments, she didn’t move. Then, inhaling deeply, she straightened and hopped down, expression resolute. “Bain, Sigrid, Father will wake in a few hours; he’ll need plenty of water and thin soup. Tilda, your job is to keep Bifur safe. If anyone sees him moving or hears him talking, he’ll be in danger.”

Bifur exclaimed something.

Bell glared dispassionately at him. “Of course I’m going. I’d do the same for any of you and you’d do the same for me, but now I need you here.”

He responded angrily; Sigrid had a feeling that whatever he was saying, it wasn’t too different from what she wanted to say.

But Bell, for the first time that Sigrid could remember, raised her voice, eyes hard. “This is not a discussion, Bifur! I am going; you are staying here. That is it.”

Slowly, Sigrid met Bain’s equally-shocked eyes, then turned back to face her surrogate sister as Bifur swayed incrementally. He spoke quietly, but the respect in his tone was easy enough to hear.

Rose-pink bloomed in Bell’s cheeks. “Shut up. If anyone’s ‘Queenly’ here, it’s Sigrid.” Bifur only scoffed, warmly, Sigrid thought, and Bell gave each of the three of them a quick, tight hug before tenderly kissing Bungo’s cheek, smoothing down his hair. Pulling on her jacket, she paused by the door and looked over them again. Eyes welling up, she almost looked as though she’d embrace them again, but she only swallowed, nodded, and promised, “I’m coming back.”

And she left.

Almost as soon as the door closed, Bain and Tilda darted toward the back stairs, but Sigrid caught them by the collars. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Tilda wriggled impatiently. “Let go! We have to follow her!”

Bain turned to face Sigrid, but she only tightened her grip; she knew from experience not to let down her guard yet. “She’ll need our help, Sigrid!”

With difficulty, Sigrid held back a long-suffering sigh; whenever it was only the three of them at home, the younger two always tried to run rampant before she put her foot down. “She told us what she needs, and what she needs is for us to stay here and do as she said.” As she continued, she towed her siblings around and into the center of the room again. “She’s older than any of us, and older than Father, and she’s been managing by herself for months. And you both know, if she wanted or needed help, she’d ask for it. She didn’t, so she doesn’t, so you are both. staying. here.”

Over the protests (Bain) and grumbling (Tilda), a gruff, low voice politely (or at least, Sigrid assumed he was bring polite) chimed in. Slowly, they turned to look at the odd little object, and Sigrid distinctly heard him clear his throat as though he was about to give a speech. Instead of speaking again, though, he paused for a moment, and unfolded a stunning number of metal tools from… somewhere. Sigrid really wasn’t sure.

But Bain and Tilda immediately gave all their attention to him, and Sigrid could have sworn she saw him nod slightly in response to her grateful smile.

Distant, near-inaudible shouting caught her attention. Glancing at the younger two, she crossed to the open window. For a moment, she stared out at the firelight flickering, reflected, on the buildings and roofs near the main square.

Deliberately, she closed the shutters and turned back to Bungo. Bell could handle herself. She could. She would.

She’d promised she’d come back.

So Sigrid would make sure her father was waiting for her when she did come back.

She would.

 

She would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! (If you're American! If you aren't, happy bonus update!)  
> À bientôt!


	28. November 6, 2934, pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then we’re there/ at the square of Esgaroth/ and there’s something truly terrible inside…

Bard glared at the Master. The coarse planks of the square were digging into his knees and his throat was on fire after the way he’d been handled since his arrest, but he refused to give him or Alfrid the pleasure of seeing him squirm. They could accuse him all they wanted, but he would not hold himself like a criminal.

He was no less than these men. They could not make him less than them.

“…nd we have heard from witnesses, distinguished members of the Guard, who have testified that there was more than ‘familial affection’, as the accused claims, between them. With the abundance of evidence present, I can see no other verdict possible.” The Master puffed himself up. “Bard of Lake-town, descendant of Girion, I declare you guilty of murder of my beloved, Belladonna.”

“She wasn’t your anything.” Eyes narrowing, the Master nodded to one of the Guards standing beside Bard; the man backhanded him across the face, splitting open his already-swollen cheek. With his hands bound behind his back, Bard nearly couldn’t catch his balance, but steadied himself just in time to remain upright. Drawing himself up again, he raised his voice hoarsely over the Master’s. “And if you actually cared for her, you’d refer to her as ‘Bell’.”

Alfrid scoffed from his position a few stairs below the Master. “And why is that?”

Flatly, Bard stared at him. “You are aware women have minds of their own, aren’t you?”

Alfrid only sneered; the Master clapped his hands pompously. “The prisoner is guilty, tak—”

“I am not.”

The Master snorted. “And what proof can you offer?” Clenching his jaw, Bard refused to drop his eyes, but he couldn’t answer, either, not without betraying her confidence. A twisted smirk growing, the Master mocked, “Why should we believe anything you say?”

Bard mutely, stubbornly, held his eyes.

A beat passed.

The wind shifted.

“Because I’m still alive.”

Bard’s eyes flew wide, and he twisted around to look desperately toward the voice as shocked exclamations rang out through the square. For an instant, part of him was convinced that he’d imagined it, but no, there was Bell, looking healthier and prouder and more herself than he’d seen her in years, striding to his side, shoulders square and head held high.

She met his eyes for a moment, long enough to give him a reassuring nod, then looked again to the men in front of them. “Therefore, Bard cannot be guilty of killing me.”

The Master was a stammering mess; Alfrid shook his head slowly. “How… how?! We found your boat—”

Voice and eyes hard as diamond, she cut him off. “You found the boat I intentionally scuttled. There was never any hope of my leaving Lake-town without the pair of you interfering, and circumstances unfortunately barred me from taking my family,” she laid her hand on his shoulder in an unspoken claim; if she hadn’t been a Hobbit, it could have been accidental, but she was too short for it to be anything but deliberate, “which I assure you, will be rectified very shortly, if I have any choice in the matter.”

Bard could barely look at the Master as he found his voice again; he’d never seen Bell hold herself so fearlessly. “You dare— You would defy my auth—”

“No, I would not ‘defy’ your authority, since that would imply you have any authority over me whatsoever. You are not my father, nor my husband, nor my beau, and you are most certainly not my ‘master’,” she snarled. “You are nothing but a weak, grasping louse of a man, and you,” to Alfrid, “are not even that."

Scoffing at their flabbergasted expressions, she murmured too quietly for anyone but Bard to hear, “I can’t believe I was ever afraid of you.”

Red-faced, the Master drew in a breath to shout something Bard had no doubt would be either vile or nauseating, but Alfrid stopped him, eyes glittering. “What is that?”

He lifted a finger to point toward Bell; the Master’s expression cleared into something like hunger. For her part, Bell only looked as confused as Bard felt. “What are you talking about?”

Eyes flicking to the Guards beside Bard, Alfrid ordered, “Hold her.”

Before either Bell or Bard could do anything more than exclaim, the Guards grabbed her by the arms and lifted, leaving her suspended at nearly Alfrid’s eye-level; when Bard tried to get to his feet, he was shoved brutally down again by another Guard, hard enough that he felt something crack in his knee.

Biting his cheek against the pain, blood filled his mouth, but he didn’t cry out, and so heard Alfrid’s musing question clearly as he moved to stand directly in front of Bell. “What is this?”

She only struggled harder when he reached toward her, but she couldn’t break free of the Guards’ hold, especially they grabbed hold of her feet, as well; Alfrid’s fingers hooked into her shirt, between the buttons—Bard _roared_ —Alfrid ripped the fabric open to reveal—

Bard’s shout died in his throat; he had no particular greed for treasure, but the silver-white mail took his breath away regardless. Whatever it was, it was evidently large on her, as once the restraint of the shirt was gone, it slithered forward to hang loosely, pulled by gravity to its full width. Alfrid’s fingers brushed it lightly; compared to the clean, shining metal, he looked utterly filthy. “Where’d you steal this from, then?”

As he spoke, he looked to another Guard and jerked his head toward her; as Bell glared venomously at Alfrid, the new Guard worked with the two holding her to yank the jacket and tunic both over her head and off; Bard was relieved to see she was wearing another shirt underneath it. “Don’t— I did not steal it— it was given to me!”

Alfird scoffed as he snatched the mail from the Guard, eyes roving greedily over it. “Who’d give a gutter-wench like you anything? But where—” he stilled. Slowly, his eyes tracked up to hers, a dark glee creeping into his expression. A sour sense of foreboding coiled in Bard’s gut. “‘The woods shall wave on mountains/ And grass beneath the sun;/ His wealth shall flow in fountains/ And the rivers golden run.’” Grinning, Alfrid raised his voice. “The streams shall run in gladness,/ The lakes shall shine and burn,/ All sorrow fail and sadness/ At the Mountain-king's return!”

Chatter erupted in the crowd, not quite loudly enough to drown out Alfrid’s next question. “That’s where you’ve been, innit? Erebor.” Eyes never leaving Bell, he took a few steps back, far enough to hold the mail out to the Master and call over his shoulder, “And if she’s telling the truth and someone actually gave her something like this, how much more must they have laying around?”

Bard held back a snarl at the derision in Alfrid’s voice, but Bell’s expression kept him from saying anything. She didn’t look angry any longer. She looked afraid. She looked like Alfrid was right.

And he wasn’t the only one who saw it. Smirking as the Master took the tunic, Alfrid drawled, “Mountains of gold, rivers of jewels, the wealth of a Dwarven kingdom—”

“You have no right!” The anger was back, darker than Bard had seen from Bell in years. “That gold belongs to them— You have no right to take it!”

Sneering, the Master nodded to one of the Guards holding Bell, and the man let go of her foot just long enough to backhand her hard enough to split her lip. “What does ‘right’ matter? The Dwarves of Erebor are long since gone.” Coldly, he turned to Alfrid. “Take the Guard. She got in somehow; there must be an entrance somewhere.”

“No, you can’t!”

The panic creeping back into her expression confused Bard, but the Master didn’t even seem to notice. “Why not?”

She only gaped for a moment; the Master’s smile widened. “Y— It—” Dismissively, the Master looked again to Alfrid; as he began to say something, too add some order, the words burst out of Bell, “Because it’s protected!”

The entire square, so far as Bard could see when he was included in that number, looked at her. Unsurprisingly, Alfrid was the one to speak, sounding more half-witted than usual. “What?”

Fiercely, panting quietly as she caught her breath, Bell glared at the two men. “It. is. protected. By a bea— a dragon. A huge creature, more than large enough to swallow the pair of you whole. I’ve seen him wipe out entire packs of wargs, hordes of Orcs, like they were nothing. Go to that mountain and he’ll slaughter you just as easily.”

For a handful of seconds, the square was silent. Bard didn’t know what to believe; there’d been enough truth in her face to almost make all of it seem plausible, but there’d been more than enough desperation, panic, and disgust mixed in to obstruct what was truth and what was fiction. He didn’t think more than half of it was true, though he couldn’t say which half.

But he knew her better than anyone else present, had spent a decade learning to read her.

They wouldn’t be able to tell.

They couldn’t.

Alfrid sneered. “She’s lying through her teeth.”

At nearly the same moment, the Master ordered, “Take them to the jail! And you,” to Alfrid, “take whatever you need from the armory. Take no chances.”

A Guard hauled Bard to his feet, but if he said anything, it was lost under Bell’s shouts. “No, listen to me! You can’t—” She growled, kicking her feet loose of the Guards’ hold in a vain attempt to wrestle free. “Imrid amrâd ursul! If you go to the mountain, you will not return here alive! Do you hear me?!”

Her voice cracked as she continued shouting, but Bard couldn’t tell if her words were a warning or a promise. With his hands bound, he couldn’t fight, but he could, and did, interject reasons to believe her into her shouts.

None of them listened.

 

The Guards slung Bell and Bard into the cell roughly enough to knock the breath from her lungs, though she’d long since given up on shouting warnings. The room was barely wide enough for Bard to sit across from the bars with his legs stretched out, and was only just long enough to Bard to lay across the length of it, part of which was taken up anyway with low (for a Man; high for a Hobbit) benches set into the narrow ends of the room. Of course, like all the buildings in Lake-town, it was more than tall enough for a Man to stand at full height.

At her first attempt to stand, her foot slipped on the edge of Bard’s jacket and sent her flailing back, her head colliding with bars on a window she hadn’t noticed before then. She didn’t look out as she blinked the stars out of her vision; the jail was built into a bridge fifteen feet above the water. Just looking at it from the path was enough to make her head swim.

If she let herself think about where she was now, she probably throw up all over Bard.

Or faint on him, and then what would hap—

Diarmait!

With a jolt, she recognized the sound of armor clanking beneath her, and glanced outside just long enough to see Guards, at least two dozen of them, rattling toward the boatyard. The fading sunlight reflected off their blades like gold, like fire, and all she could think of was Diarmait.

She’d seen him bleed.

If she didn’t get out in time to warn him, these men would see him die.

She spun around to get to the door, but only succeeded in tripping over Bard again; the air left him with an _oof!_ “Talking hurts righ’ now, but think you could untie me?”

He sounded awful; guilt flooding her, she scrambled behind him again. “I’m sorry! I didn’t even think—”

The knots were thick, and tight enough that she resorted to biting them; he rasped out a huffing laugh. “Caugh’ that when you kneed me in the gut.” As she gagged and pulled strands of rope out of her mouth, he was silent; it wasn’t until a minute later, when she was working the ropes completely off of him, that he spoke. “Tell me the things you said in the square weren’t true.”

Things… the things about Diarmait. She grimaced. “Exaggerated. I was trying to convince them not to go.” Shaking her head at herself, she moved to the cell door. “I should have done more, said more—”

“You know wha’ they’re like when there’s gold to be had. You coul’ have said Melkor himself was in tha’ mountain and it wouldn’t have made a difference.” Part of her knew he was right, but she still felt sick at the thought of anyone dying in Erebor, Man, Dwarf, or Diarmait.

The bars on the door weren’t quite spaced widely enough for her to fit her head through, but she could see a ways down the passage into the building they’d come through, and could hear a ways further: there was no one in earshot. Experimentally, she ran her fingers over the lock, trying to picture the mechanisms.

“Bell.”

Grimacing again, she deliberately didn’t look at Bard. “No, I didn’t see him fight any Orcs. Yes, I saw him fight a pack of wargs, if that’s the right term; there were only four of them and they were half-starved, and I helped with one of them.” Pausing, she met Bard’s eyes, needing him to see how serious she was. “He was protecting me. I was the only one in danger from those wargs, and he saved me, at risk of his own life. They wounded him badly enough that he might have died if I hadn’t been there to tend him, and it took him more than a month to completely recover. He still has the scars.”

Feeling somewhat ready to try picking the lock, Bell pulled one of the pins out of her bun and prayed that wouldn’t be enough to completely untwist the braid; Bard hadn’t said a word yet, and it wasn’t until several seconds after she’d tentatively begun working at the lock that he quietly asked, “Has he ever hurt you?”

Stilling, she met his eyes again. “Never intentionally.” One of his brows crept slowly up, and she sighed. “There was an accident a few weeks after I came to the mountain. He didn’t even realize he’d hurt me for a bit, and when he did, he was more distraught than I was.”

“And he couldn’t possibly have been lying.”

Something about the flat incredulity in his tone irked her; straightening, she narrowed her eyes at him. “When have I ever been the type to be easily fooled? When have I ever once done anything to make you think I’d follow anyone without being completely sure of their motives?”

For a few moments, he only held her gaze. For all that she was six years older, there were times that he seemed to think physical maturity equated to mental maturity. But whenever he did, it generally only took a few minutes for him to remember that she was as much an adult as he was. After a minute of mutual glaring, he dropped his gaze with a defeated huff. “Alright, I trust your judgement. As long as you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” His shoulders dropped a fraction; she turned back to face the bars. “And part of how I know that is that as soon as he realized he’d hurt me, he told me to leave, to come back here, to leave him to die.”

Bard snorted. “That’s likely.”

Despite herself, she smirked. “Well, he learned that, too. And if I hadn’t faked my death, maybe I would’ve come back once he was fully recovered. If he’d been the monster we thought he was all those months ago, I certainly would have. But he isn’t like that. He’s a good man.” Thinking of Diarmait, of all the nights spent talking until neither of them could stay awake, she couldn’t help but smile. “I can’t really say he’s kind,” not inherently, at least; he could be if he tried, “but he’s honest, and strong-willed enough that I’ve actually lost a few of our arguments, and stubborn enough that he always tries to deny it when he loses, and he takes care of everyone he cares about, even if it means sacrifices on his part.”

Remembering the irony, she laughed softly. “If he hadn’t been cursed, he’d be the most unselfish man I’ve ever known, you included; that’s why I call him ‘Diarmait’, it literally means ‘unselfish’. He never thinks of himself unless everyone else is taken care of first, and for the last few months, that’s included me.”

Hesitantly, he ventured, “You keep saying everyone.”

She glanced back to see that though he looked uncomfortable, he seemed to honestly be trying to understand. “There’s more than just him there. They’re all cursed, but he’s the only dragon; the rest are inanimate objects.” She snorted. “Well, I say ‘inanimate’."

“What do you mean, ‘the rest’?”

Brow furrowed, she answered matter-of-factly; that was obvious, wasn’t it? “The Company, the other Dwarves— oh, I didn’t say, did I?” Cheeks heating, she backtracked. “You remember the Dwarves who came through Lake-town fifty-three years ago? The ones you told us about? That’s them. Except now they’re cursed, so they aren’t Dwarves at the moment.”

Focusing on the feeling of the pins, she let herself ramble, not paying much attention to what she said. “Bofur’s a candelabra, his brother Bifur’s a sort of multi-tool— oh, what I wouldn’t give to have him here now. Him or Nori. Anyway, Bofur and Bifur’s brother-in-law Bombur is a stove— they’re all dears, and the only ones who aren’t related to the rest. Dori is a teapot, her younger sister Nori is a feather-duster, she and Bofur are courting, and their youngest sister, Ori, is a quill. Somehow she never runs out of ink. Very helpful.

“The ‘Ris are distant cousins to Óin, he’s a mortar-and-pestle, and Glóin, he’s a handheld bellows, and Óin and Glóin are brothers. Óin and Glóin are first cousins to Balin and Dwalin, who are also brothers, and also a clock and a music box, respectively. All the -ins are third cousins to Frerin, he’s a suit of armor— I think he and Ori are courting, or at least sweet on each other, but I don’t know for sure— and his brother, Th— …oh.” Lost in thought, it was a moment before she realized Bard had spoken. “Hmm?”

“What is it?”

Glancing at him, she shook herself out of her thoughts. “Oh, no, I just hadn’t connected it before, but Frerin is the grandson of the last King Under the Mountain, but Diarmait is the rightful king, and with the way they behave, it’s obvious they’re close, but in hindsight they must be brothers, which would mean Diarmait’s real name is Thorin.”

On the last word, the hairpin’s resistance abruptly disappeared, and she nearly slammed her head into the bars before she caught herself. Grimacing as she picked the broken pin out of the lock, she eased a second pin out of her bun, letting loose a slow breath as the coil barely stayed in place. “…How do you know it’s ‘Thorin’? Why not ‘Brerin’ or ‘Glarin’ or something?”

Any other time, she might have laughed at the second and how fitting it was, but she could barely even breathe, for fear of losing the flicker of a memory she was chasing. “I…” It was gone. “I don’t know. I must have heard someone start to call him that or something.” Thinking of the Company only reminded her of how much danger they were in, and she refocused with a grimace. “But they’re running out of time. He’s been getting more draconic for weeks, and the Company’s been hiding it, but they’re getting slower, stiffer, less… alive.”

At the thought of them as nothing more than mathoms, she nearly couldn’t breathe. Fists clenching on the bars and on the pin, she closed her eyes against that image for a long moment before setting to work again. “The curse has to be broken. And I think I might have an idea how,” though she wasn’t sure where it had come from, “but none of that matters if they all get killed by Alfrid. I can’t let them die, Bard, I can’t…” The pin slipped through her fingers and disappeared into the blur at the bottom of her vision. “…I can’t let him die.”

For a long moment, she only focused on steadying her breathing.

“…You love him, don’t you?”

She nearly hit the bars again. “What?! No!” Why was her voice so high?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bard level a flat look at her. “No, you say everyone’s names like they taste like sweetbread, what am I talking about?” He snorted and shook his head. “No, you’re talking about him like you would about your father or Sigrid. You…” He trailed off for a moment, something awed in his voice. “…You actually love him.”

She barely heard him.

Half her brain was a cacophony of denials; it was impossible, she’d only known him a few months, he wasn’t even her race when he wasn’t cursed, she couldn’t have not realized she loved him, it wasn’t possible.

The other half was revisiting every memory she had with him, trying to find the moment she’d actually begun to love him, but she couldn’t. There was no day in particular she’d woken up with more affection for him than the day before, no conversation she could pick out that had truly changed the way she saw him, or at least not since they left the pit.

But she did love him. She knew it as surely as she knew she had to get to Erebor, as she knew the Arkenstone wasn’t dangerous.

She loved him. And somehow that didn’t change a thing.

Blinking her vision clear, she snatched the pin up again and redoubled her efforts. “All the more reason for me to find a way out of here so I can tell the idiot myself. Oh,” she scoffed, “I’ll just bet Bofur and Frerin have a pool going about that. Nori’ll be keeping the odds, though. She’s better at that sort of thing.”

A door slammed in the distance; her heart nearly stopped as the pin slipped from her fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay Bard! I have a soft spot for him, can you tell?  
> Note: 'Imrid amrâd ursul' means 'die a fiery death'. She didn't learn that one from Thorin.   
> Sorry about how short it is, but... *shrugs* Tell you what, if I get three requests for an early update before Wednesday, I'll put the next chapter up then.  
> À bientôt!


	29. November 6, 2934, pt. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus!

As stomping footsteps neared the cell, she pushed back, colliding with Bard as he tried to move in front of her. Braga and another Guard she couldn’t put a name to moved into view just as Bard was picking himself up; she pressed herself against the wall, trying to think of a way out. As Braga unlocked the cell, he looked out of view and jerked his head toward the cell; Sowry, grim-faced, stepped into the cell with the other Guard, eyes fixed on Bard.

Bard threw a punch, clipping Sowry, but not enough to send him back. The two Guards grabbed Bard’s arms, pinning him down; a stray strike hit Bell in the gut, knocking the wind out of her. As she fought to catch her breath again, Braga stepped into the cell and took hold of her wrist; she dug her feet in for a moment, but when he yanked her toward the door regardless, she switched methods, clawing at his hand, kicking every bit of him in reach.

For a moment, as he yelled in pain, she thought she’d succeeded in stopping him.

“Sowry, get over here!”

Or not.

Swearing, Sowry kicked Bard again and turned around, the tiny cell meaning that he was close enough to grab her legs and lift; Braga grabbed her other hand. She still struggled, but between the two of them, she couldn’t move enough to do any real damage.

Then she felt Sowry’s hands move somewhere she knew Diarmait would kill him for; fighting a wave of mixed panic and revulsion, she took advantage of his thoughtlessness in letting go of her feet and kicked, hard.

He went down with a falsetto shriek, doubled over with his hands between his legs; for a vindictive moment, she fervently hoped the damage would be permanent.

Cursing darkly, Braga hauled her up, holding her hands with one of his and carrying her under his arm like a naughty fauntling. “Fritjof! Leave him and help me!” She couldn’t twist around to get Braga in the same spot she had Sowry, but she could, and did, knee him in the back and thighs. Grunting with the impacts, Braga stumbled out of the cell, pinning her legs against the opposite wall for the moment. “Fritjof!”

She couldn’t see the cell from her position, but she could hear him grumbling as his voice neared; a moment later, Braga moved away from the wall and hands immediately gripped her feet, keeping them still while she struggled. “Well? Lock the door!”

Braga grunted again. “Unless you want to hold her by yourself, you’ll have to do it.”

“You have the keys!”

“They’re on my belt— just grab them! Wait, first—”

The hold on her feet shifted as Braga pulled her forward, moving her so her knees were against his hip, where she’d do more damage to herself than him if she tried anything; the new position left her in a better position to wriggle free, but more importantly, it left her in a position to see around Braga’s side, and most importantly, to see the keys where they hung. If she could get her hands free, she could probably reach them. That in mind, she kept struggling weakly, but was careful not to let on how much mobility she actually had.

Almost as soon as she saw the keys, the hold on her feet shifted to a single-handed grip, and Fritjof’s other hand wrestled the keys off the belt, him grumbling all the while. The two men shuffled awkwardly around to a position where Fritjof could lock the door without losing his grip on her, and he clumsily replaced the keys on the belt a moment after she heard the lock clunk into place; it was also the same moment she heard one of the men in the cell get to his feet.

Bard started yelling a moment later, slurring slightly, but she barely heard him, too focused on the keys and the idea taking shape in her mind. As Braga turned to walk away from the cell, Bard came into view, leaning against the bars as though he could push through them if he tried; swiftly, she yanked her hands free and clawed at Braga’s face with her left while she pulled the keys free and tossed them to Bard with the other. The distraction lasted a couple seconds, if that, but it was enough, and Bard was sharp enough to keep bellowing as he caught the keys, to cover the clank of metal.

She only had an instant to see that her plan had worked, though, before Braga grabbed her hands again and yanked hard enough to white out her vision. She only kept from screaming by biting her cheek. When she could see again, they were moving through the streets, now fully night. Her shoulders ached; carefully, she tested her range of motion as much as she could; thankfully, her arms hadn’t come out of joint, but she didn’t doubt she’d ache for days.

Unsurprisingly, they brought her into the Master’s house. He was waiting at his table, toying with her mithril, sitting in a way that he likely thought was seductive or imposing, but only managed to look uncomfortable. For a moment, she focused on thinking of all the harm he’d likely do himself if he kept on as he was, but she could only distract herself so long.

For all her fighting and earlier bravado, she was one Hobbit facing three grown Men, none of which were overly concerned with her well-being, and she didn’t have her armor. There was very little she could do against those odds.

But like Mandos was she going to let any of these ‘utnrakhâs see her fear.

She wasn’t alone any longer. Tho— Diarmait knew what the Master was, and she knew the Company would think no less of her if they knew. A flash of an image came to her, of a man in the center of an empty circle in a crowd of people; on trial, she thought, though she couldn’t say why. ‘Dwarven justice’ was the term that came to mind, and the thought of the Master in that position, with the Company standing vigil and Thorin passing judgement on him for everything he’d done to her, done to everyone in Lake-town, gave her the resolve to hold her head high and her back straight as Braga set her on her feet again.

She wasn’t a Baggins of Bag-End anymore, but by Eru, she was a Baggins of Erebor.

She would not feel ashamed of others’ treatment of her any longer.

Braga kept tight hold of her wrists, though she didn’t struggle for the time being; if there were an opportunity to escape, she’d take it, but they were more likely to let down their guard if they thought she wasn’t going to run. Dropping the mail on the table like so much linen, the Master stood and waved dismissively at the Guards, though his eyes never left hers. “You aren’t needed here. You can go.”

Immediately, Fritjof bowed at the corner of her vision and walked toward the door, but Braga didn’t move. “All due respect, Master, but she’s already done damage to your Guards. I don’t think you’ll be safe unless she is restrained.”

The Master grimaced slightly, but it didn’t affect the too-familiar lust in his eyes. “Very well, then. You, get rope.”

Somewhere behind her, Fritjof murmured an assent and left, the door thudding closed as her heart began to pound. Two Men were less impossible, but still daunting; if Fritjof returned with the rope before she could get away, she’d have no hope of escape.

If there was one small mercy, it was that she could trust the Master wouldn’t do much until the ropes arrived; some of the women she’d treated had commented on how much he disliked audiences to his… diversions.

She had a minute, perhaps two. She’d have to use them well.

The Master bent down; she kept her face stony, thinking of the dark Dwarf she kept imagining. She doubted her expression was as intimidating as his would be, but it was as close as she could get. Eyeing her as though he were standing at a butcher’s stall, the Master ran a finger down her cheek, under her chin, and up the other side of her face; with difficulty, she kept from flinching. “I’ve waited a long time for this. Too long.”

She shouldn’t say anything. She shouldn’t. She should just watch and wait— “That depends on the perspective.”

Face reddening, the Master forcefully grabbed her face, yanking her closer, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough to feel the heat coming off of him, oppressive in a way it never was with Thorin. “If that blasted Bard hadn’t taken you in, this would have been far earlier, wench. And if this bloody-minded town hadn’t been so sodding slow to mistrust that Dale-man, you would never have had a chance to run away.”

Her breath caught; in the moment of stunned silence before she managed to speak, a corner of her mind registered the sound of the door opening and panicked: it hadn’t been long enough for her to do anything. “You turned everyone against him.”

The Master scoffed; the approaching footsteps slowed. “I tried, but they were all convinced he could do no wrong and you must have been the vile seductress. It wasn’t until he didn’t shed a tear over your ‘death’ that I made any real headway.” Scowl deepening, he looked up, past Braga. “I told you—”

His jaw dropped and his grip slackened as Braga’s abruptly released; Bell didn’t look ‘round, she didn’t question it, she just used his distraction and proximity to drive her knee into his groin with all the power six months of climbing endless staircases and foothills had given her.

He didn’t even scream, only let loose a wheezing, groaning exhale and crumpled backward. As much as it was anticlimactic, it was doubly cathartic. He wasn’t wearing half the number of layers as Sowry, and there’d been a distinct difference in how the action felt to her. For a vengeful moment, she might have hoped that the damage to Sowry would be permanent, but to put it tactfully, she had little doubt that the Master’s would be.

He was in agony, and would likely continue to be for some time, and she couldn’t bring herself to regret causing it in the slightest.

She’d almost forgotten about the other men in the room, and startled violently away when one of them moved beside her. He spread his hands appeasingly, but it took her a long moment to see anything but the armor, or to recognize Bard’s voice. “Easy, Bell. It’s only me.”

The tension left her in a heaving sigh, even as she glanced back at where Braga laid, unmoving, on the floor a few feet away; it wasn’t until she saw that that she could truly let down her guard, and she threw her arms around Bard’s waist, despite the armor digging into her. “I didn’t expect you for ages— Mahal’s Forge, Bard, thank you!”

He huffed slightly, but pried her arms just loose enough for him to fall to his knees and return her hug properly. “Those Dwarves had quite the influence on you; you never would have fought like that a year ago. That’s how I got out so quickly; Sowry wasn’t in any condition to fight after you took care of him, so it was easy to knock him out and strip him. This time of night, especially since all but one or two Guards beside Braga and Sowry left with Alfrid, no one’s paying attention to faces. If we’re careful, we can get to the house and get the kids out of the town and halfway to Gondor before anyone thinks to check on these ones.”

Realizing what he’d said, she jerked back. “No! I have to go to Erebor!”

“Bell—”

“They’re going to kill him!” Bard stilled at that, and she lowered her voice, not bothering to blink her vision clear as she held his eyes. “You know they’re going to. I can’t— I can’t lose anyone else, Bard. I can’t. I won’t stand by and let this happen to him.”

Face tight, he leaned back on his heels. “And I can’t leave my children here, Bell.”

“You don’t have to come.”

Pointedly, he raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know how to ride and you’ll never catch up to them on foot.” She couldn’t actually deny that, though she tried to think of something. “But I cannot and will not leave my children here, Bell. It’s not safe.” She could think of one, obvious solution; quirking a brow at him, she waited for him to come to the same conclusion; it wasn’t her choice to make. Jaw clenching as he caught it, he pointed accusingly at her. “No. No, we are not taking my children into a war zone—”

“It isn’t a war zone.” He scowled at her; she raised her hands defensively. “The Men will all be looking for Thorin and the Company, and I know a hundred hidey-holes you could stay in with them while I do the same.” His glower faltered; shrugging helplessly, she shook her head. “I don’t want to see the three of them in danger any more than you do, and it is completely your decision, but do you think I’d suggest this if I thought there was any risk to them? To you?”

For a moment, he was silent. “What about your father?”

She winced. “I’m still figuring that out. It depends on what condition he’s in, I suppose.”

Jaw clenched, he nodded once and pushed to his feet. “We have to get back to the house in any case.”

She nodded. “Let me just grab my armor.”

He looked at her incredulously. “Your what?!” She just smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a super short chapter, but at least the Master's dealt with.  
> Completely unrelated note, did you know being kneed in the groin hard enough can be fatal?  
> À bientôt!


	30. November 6, 2934, pt. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Save your children and your father/ we’ll save our mountain and our lives…

Bungo stirred blearily. He was lying on something hard, although there was something softer under his head. That was… He’d been somewhere else. The last he remembered, he’d been… been on the road, been trying to reach Bell. A large, though gentle, hand pressed lightly on his shoulder when he tried to sit up; Sigrid was blurry above him, but he could recognize her. “What happened?”

Satisfied he’d stay still, she held a cup of water to his lips so he could, gratefully, drink. “You collapsed on the road; Bell brought you back here.”

A jolt of mingled relief and confusion struck him; he’d had faith, even as he lost consciousness, that Bell would find him, but then why wasn’t she the one helping him drink?

Bain spoke up before he could ask. “And then she left to go rescue Da.”

His brows shot up; as Sigrid moved to the kitchen, he said neutrally, “She did?”

Tilda nodded. “Mmhmm. And then there was a lot of shouting.”

Still keeping his tone neutral, he glanced at Sigrid, waiting for her to dispute it. “Was there.”

Sigrid picked her way across the room, a full bowl in her hands. “Never mind that now. Here, I made soup.” Frowning, he opened his mouth to ask for answers, but she forestalled him firmly, one hand on his arm. “Bell said you should have some, and water. I’ll tell you everything she told us, but you have to eat and drink while I do.”

Closing his mouth, he considered her for a moment. In the months without Bell, she’d stepped neatly into the space Bell left, in the house, at least; the Rohirric healer didn’t have half her skill. She was a good girl, much like some of his more assertive cousins, and he trusted that she’d tell him the truth.

Though the truth was more fantastic than he ever could have guessed. He didn’t say a word the entire time she spoke, and after she finished, he only waved off her attempts to convince him further; he believed her. It was mad, but he believed her. Or, at least, he believed that she believed that Bell believed it. He’d need to talk to Bell for himself before he could truly accept it as the truth.

He thought over what Sigrid had told him for what felt like several hours, though it could have only been two, at most; as he thought, he could hear Tilda talking quietly to herself. He considered asking who she was talking to, but Bain and Sigrid didn’t seem to see anything odd about it. Most children had imaginary friends at some point, he supposed. Tilda had never seemed to before, but there was a first time for everything.

Several minutes after Sigrid finished, she and Bain (reluctantly) helped him onto the bench to sit on his own, though they tended to sweep in any time they thought he was overreaching himself. Most of the time, he found their concern sweet, like having grandchildren, but with her stories whirling around his mind, he wished he could have some time alone to think. He wasn’t that old.

Yet.

A knock came unexpectedly enough to make the children nearly jump out of their skins, but Bungo had been half-expecting it since Sigrid confirmed that Bell had gone to ‘rescue’ Bard. A quick, staccato pattern of knocks followed, the all-clear they’d devised when the town began to turn against them in earnest, and Sigrid sagged in relief even as Bain hurried to open the door.

Before it was even fully open, Bard had pulled Bain into his arms, and Sigrid and Tilda ran to him as Bell darted around him to throw her arms around Bungo. “You’re up— Why are you up, Sigrid shouldn’t have let you up, how long have you been up?!”

Doing his best to memorize how she felt in his arms, Bungo chuckled. “A good couple of hours, love.” She was still tense, but she only shook her head and tightened her arms around him. As his heart slowed, he realized Sigrid had been right; Bell had changed a great deal in the time she’d been gone, though only physically. But that left the question, “What on Arda have you been up to? Tilda tells me there was some commotion before I woke.”

She laughed weakly; Tilda chirped, “Sigrid wouldn’t let us see what was happening.”

Letting go of Bain just long enough to gather his daughters into his arms as well, Bard kissed Sigrid on the forehead. “Exactly right, too.”

Pinking slightly, she hid her face in his shoulder. “Da-a.” Bungo had to smile at the half-whine; he’d heard that tone more than once from Bell before the Winter.

After kissing Sigrid again, Bard rested his chin on her head, meeting Bungo’s eyes. “The Master arrested us both—” As Bungo jolted, Bard raised his brows and promised, “He won’t be making any trouble for a few hours, at least.”

It wasn’t much reassurance, and for a moment, he thought Bell agreed, but she only drew back far enough to meet Bungo’s eyes, not Bard’s. “But Alfrid and the Guards are marching on Erebor—”

She stopped abruptly, expression tensing, presumably as she realized she hadn’t explained to Bungo, but he shook his head before she could backtrack. “Sigrid and Bain explained.” Bell didn’t relax, and he chucked her gently under the chin. “But I will ask: you’re sure he’s worth protecting?”

He couldn’t imagine it himself; the cursed Dwarf Sigrid had described didn’t hold much similarity to the beast he remembered. But then, he’d thought then that the beast almost seemed to be smiling, hadn’t he? He’d heard the sarcasm, been surprised a ‘beast’ could be sarcastic. He’d spoken to the dragon for all of two minutes; she’d lived with him for months. And as though she’d read his mind, she met his eyes with utter solemnity. “Completely.”

Like a flash of lightning, for an instant he was in the Great Smials, watching Belladonna as she stared down her father, as she responded to his questioning her dedication to Bungo with that exact word. And he couldn’t help but laugh, albeit quietly. “You’re so much like your mother.” Bell inhaled sharply, a teary smile growing as Bungo cupped her face in both hands. “I don’t know who you take after more: your mother for finding an adventure no one could ever have predicted, or me, finding the single most ludicrously unlikely person possible.”

A tearful laugh burst from her, and she grinned. “The best of both of you.”

“Exactly.”

They laughed together for a moment, and Bungo remembered his wife. She would have been so proud of Bell, and so was he. She truly was the best of them, and that was without mentioning all the ways she was amazing on her own.

She was brilliant, and more than clever enough to see through anyone who tried to lie to her.

If she trusted this dragon so much, he’d trust her judgement.

He still wasn’t sure about the ‘living inanimate objects’ part of the story, but—

Another voice, harsh and urgent, cut through the room; expecting a burly Man from the sound, Bungo was somewhat nonplussed to see a small multi-tool moving on its own—

Just… where Tilda had been sitting and… talking to… apparently not herself.

And when he could actually move past the fact that the world had just turned upside down, he’d ask for a proper explanation.

Bell leaned toward the… thing, though she kept an arm around Bungo. “I know, and we are going back. The question is who else is coming with us.”

The tool pivoted several times, ‘stepping’ closer to them as it spoke again; Bungo couldn’t help but twitch backwards.

“No, they’re on horses, of course. They have a few hours lead, but they’re in full armor and we aren’t, so I should think that would give us an advan—“

The tool—Bungo supposed it had to be one of the cursed Dwarves Sigrid had mentioned—interrupted her; Bell watched avidly, apparently following it— him, perfectly, and Bungo and Bard exchanged dumbfounded glances.

“Oh, really? I didn’t know it was that complicated.”

More jabbering; Bungo had known Bell inherited his talent with languages, but she was obviously a quicker study than he’d ever been, to be so fluent after only a few months.

“So we’ll still be close behind them. That’s all that matters, and if I know Thorin, he won’t be anywhere near the gates.”

Frowning, Bungo looked at her again; Sigrid hadn’t mentioned a ‘Thorin’. The Dwarf seemed to share his incredulity, and this time Bungo was able to catch the name in his jabbering.

Bell shook her head slowly, tone distant. “I… I don’t know. It just… It fits him. It makes sense, somehow. I can’t explain.” She shook her head again, snappishly. “But he won’t be near the gates, he’ll be in the throne room.”

The Dwarf sounded satisfied, and Bell grinned.

“Exactly. But we’ll have to go soon to keep the advantage.”

“Back to the mountain?” Tilda’s voice broke Bungo’s heart; she sounded hardly more than a toddler, and as afraid as Bain and Sigrid looked.

After a moment, Bell answered softly, “Yes, love. But the trouble is, I can’t get there in time by myself, and your father can’t leave you all alone when the town’s in this state.”

Anyone could hear that there was something she wasn’t saying; it wasn’t hard for Bungo to guess at it. “And I’m in no condition to ride a wagon, let alone a horse.”

“Papa…”

She hadn’t called him such since long before they left the Shire; joy and awe entwined in his chest and spiraled up to tug a smile from his lips and tears from his eyes, and he embraced her again. If this ‘Thorin’ had helped his daughter heal so, he couldn’t begrudge her wanting to help him in return. “No, go.” Squeezing her gently, he drew back enough to meet her eyes as she shook her head. “There’s food and water here, and no one and nothing can find a Hobbit who doesn’t want to be found. I’ll be safe as houses here until you can come back.”

She frowned at him for several seconds, trying to think of an argument (she looked so like her mother), but eventually conceded, brow still furrowed. “If you have a chance to run, take it. Go to Mirkwood; Legolas is a decent man, at least. He’ll help you.”

Bungo nodded; it was a good plan. Embracing her again, he looked at Bard even as he did his best to memorize how she fit into his arms. “I can hide myself, but I can’t hide the children with me. I can’t protect them.” Bard still looked doubtful, and Bungo sharpened his tone. “Bell wouldn’t suggest this lightly. I trust her judgement.”

‘And so should you’ went unsaid, but not unheard, he hoped. Bard’s eyes flicked to Bell as she drew back, then to his own children. Slowly, he nodded. “Sigrid, Bain, pack food for two days’ travel. I assume there’s food in the mountain?”

Standing, Bell nodded. “Mostly meat and mushrooms, but there’s more than enough to last the four of you on the return trip if things go badly.” Bungo jolted; she couldn’t actually mean that she could get hurt, could she? Shemust have felt his flinch, still holding his hand as she was, and immediately turned and met his eyes. “I might be back a bit later than the rest of them, is all.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he believed her. The Dwarf spoke rapidly.

Bell looked at him as though he’d offered her the world. “You don’t have to.”

His response was… well, Bungo wanted to call it sassy.

Bell huffed, blushing. “I am not, Bifur, stop saying that. But thank you.” Squeezing Bungo’s hand again, she let go and took the few steps away in order to pick up the Dwarf, Bifur, evidently; as she stood, she turned to Bard. “Bifur can guide you through the mountain if things go wrong; directions are easy enough.”

After another moment, Bard kissed each of his children on the head. “I’ll prepare horses. Bell, meet me on the shore where you wrecked your boat; Tilda, you’re coming with me.”

“But—”

“There’s no discussion here, Bain.” Softening slightly, Bard hugged Bain again, then kissed Sigrid and swept out, Tilda in tow.

Blinking rapidly, both children stared at the door for a moment, then turned to Bell. Bell looked between them for a moment, then shooed them toward the kitchen. “Food, supplies, go!”

A few hours later, Bungo stood at the window and watched the three of them slip through the town, heart in his throat. Bell was grown, he reminded himself. She was clearly capable of taking care of herself and the children, especially with Bard to help.

They’d be fine.

They’d be back in a matter of days.

They’d be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the pieces are officially in place. Now we can begin.


	31. November 8, 2934

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we come, we’re fifty strong/ let’s kill the beast!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once, I have recommended listening. To avoid spoilers, I'll just put links to the songs where you need to start listening to them; I know I tend to underline things often, so these will just be on the first word or punctuation mark in a paragraph. In case the links don't work for some reason, here are back-ups. (They're all by Two Steps From Hell, if you need to look them up on Youtube.)  
> 1: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/72-virgins/559857080?i=559857124  
> 2: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/none-shall-live/983825492?i=983826725  
> 3: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/calamity/559857080?i=559857284  
> 4: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/never-give-up-on-your-dreams/1287310003?i=1287310012

[As](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/72-virgins/559857080?i=559857124) dawn broke over the mountain, the workers gave a victorious shout. Alfrid grinned. It had taken a full day and a half to break through the barricades, but now it would all be worth it. A lifetime of scraping and grasping and clawing at every opportunity he found, but now, now he would be rich. Now he would be the Master’s equal. Now he could have any thing, any one, he wanted.

Finally, he’d get what he deserved.

A few of the Master’s Guards started to move forward; Alfrid called out reflexively (he should be the first one in, after all), but only spurred them on when they looked to him. If there was a trap, it was far, far better that these insects died, rather than him.

He followed them in leisurely, but fought back a snarl when the full scope of the city presented itself. “Spread out! First to kill the beast gets the lion’s share of the treasure.”

And a knife in their back, of course. ‘No, I swear, Master, he was going to steal your gold’.

He’d kill every one of these cretins if he had to. That gold was his, every last piece of it. He deserved it, after everything he’d suffered. All those years licking the Master’s boots, all those years having to sate himself with the Master’s leftovers, he deserved to be the most powerful man in the town.

He’d have money, he’d have power, and then he’d finally have Bell. He’d have her every way he could imagine, until she screamed, until she cried.

All he needed to do was take credit for killing a dragon. Smirking, he slipped out of the mountain again and retrieved his secret weapon. The Guards would have to make do with the weapons they had, but it wasn’t as though he’d be at fault for their deaths.

Every idiot knew a dragon slayer needed a black arrow.

 

Tilda twisted around to look at the sun again as they rode up another hill. She’d never seen so many hills before, but the fun had worn off that morning, waking up out in the cold, in the open.

She used to think camping sounded a grand adventure.

She did not think that now.

It hadn’t been dreadfully cold; they’d all piled together, and they’d only all slept for an hour or two when Sigrid and Bain couldn’t stay awake a minute longer, but still, she already missed her bed.

Bell caught her eye, riding with Sigrid behind Tilda and their Da. Bain could ride on his own, barely, but Tilda and Bell were much too short. Tilda couldn’t help but think it was a good thing Bell wasn’t controlling the horse; she looked as though she were a breath away from jumping off and running for the mountain on her own. If she were Sigrid’s height, she probably would have ridden at a gallop all the way, even though Da said that would hurt the horses.

Normally, Bell wouldn’t do anything that could hurt anything, but with how desperate she was to get to her dragon, Tilda wouldn’t put it past her.

Bell jolted forward at the same time that Sigrid’s eyes widened, and Tilda turned to see what they were looking at, and then only stared. She’d been able to see the mountain before, of course, but she hadn’t seen the gates before. They were huge, taller than the Master’s house and five times as wide, and there was a big hole in the middle.

Bifur, safe in Tilda’s hand, burst out with something angry and impossible to understand; Da drew the horse to a stop; Sigrid shouted.

A moment later, Bell raced past all of them, but she looked back just after passing them, expression torn. Beside her, Da waved Bell on. “Go! We’ll find our way!”

Bell looked toward the gates again, leaning toward them as if she were being pulled that way, then looked to Bifur as she backed toward the mountain. “Keep them safe, Bifur! That’s an order!”

Bifur responded loudly and Bell’s face cleared in the instant before she bolted to the mountain; once she was out of earshot, he chuckled the way Da did when Sigrid or Bain did something to make him proud, and said something she couldn’t understand.

Da spurred the horses forward again, not quite going as quickly as Bell, but close.

 

Alfrid swore as yet another fork in the path presented itself. He was starting to think he’d starve before he found anything worth snatching, let alone the dragon.

For lack of a better option, he chose the more ornately-decorated path.

He was looking for a dragon, after all.

 

Bell barely slowed as she darted into the empty (so far) mountain, barely noticed that it was no darker inside than out, only took notice of the warmth long enough to strip off her jacket and toss it aside as she ran.

Her mind was taunting her with images of Men, Lake-town Guards, in the mountain, in her mountain, her Erebor, and worse still, visions of the Company lying dead-still and silent, of Thorin staring at the Arkenstone with no hope whatsoever, no will to fight, no will to live.

And winding through it all was a quiet (at first) screaming, a wordless plea to stopthis, to save her Dwarves, her halls, her Queen.

(Bell didn’t notice that she heard the unspoken words clearly, or that the pleas were not—could not—be her own imagining.)

Bell flew through the halls (too slow, too slow, too slow) and wished for wings. She wished for Men’s height. She wished for more time.

She ran.

 

A figure stepped into view at the far end of the corridor, too large to be a Dwarf or Bell.

A Man, then.

Frerin tried to move, to warn Thorin, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to move since that morning. His senses had been steadily dimming, as well; that had halted, but not improved.

The Man moved slowly forward, uncertain and timid, freezing as he scraped the bottom of some sort of metal pole against the stone. Thorin didn’t move, didn’t blink.

Frerin wasn’t sure he’d even heard it, loud as it had been.

After a moment, the Man began moving forward again, more confidently. Abruptly, Frerin realized the light in the throne room was increasing fractionally.

But he realized because it glinted off the Black Arrow in the Man’s hands.

 

Bain let himself be bustled into a tiny guardroom with Tilda, Bifur jabbering away, but refused to look at his Da.

Just audible under Tilda’s protests, Sigrid snapped from outside the room, “If you think I’m not coming, you’d best watch for me following you.”

Da heaved a growl-tinged sigh, but answered quickly, “Come then, we’re losing the light.”

He closed the stone door, Tilda’s cries still bouncing off the stone. Bain let her rage for five seconds, ten, fifteen, then pushed her arm gently. “Come on, help me!”

She frowned quizzically at him, but helped him open the door, and once they were outside the guardroom again, there was nothing more that needed to be said.

Sigrid and Da were just barely in sight, just barely close enough to follow.

 

Alfrid couldn’t believe his luck. He’d somehow found the right route to lead him straight to the beast, and not only had he found it before anyone else, it seemed as though it was dead already.

No, as he neared it, he could see its sides moving, just slightly, but it didn’t so much as twitch as he approached.

A jolt of terror struck him as his foot found the edge of the platform; he’d wandered sideways, apparently. Willing his heart to slow, he moved away from the drop and toward the beast again.

Slowly, he rounded it, nearly losing his grip on the Black Arrow when he saw that its eyes were open.

But it was focused on something in front of it, some sort of glowing stone. It was beautiful, of course, even more so than the tunic the little mouthful had been wearing, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew better than to steal a dragon’s treasure while the monster was awake and looking straight at it.

No, he’d deal with it first, and then he could have his pick of the treasure.

 

Thorin looked sidelong at the Man who’d approached. He froze, unsurprisingly, but Thorin didn’t move, either.

The Man was holding a Black Arrow. The solution Thorin might have chosen himself, if he’d had the choice.

If he had the choice between becoming the monster who’d slaughtered his family or dying while there was still a fragment of his true self left, he’d choose the latter.

Bell would never forgive him.

He knew with every fiber of his being, Bell would never forgive him. But he could feel himself slipping away. He’d never forgive himself if he became a beast in truth.

The Man oozed back into motion, smile as slimy as his hair, and adjusted his grip on the Arrow. Thorin turned his eyes again to the rapidly-pulsing Arkenstone.

It wasn’t Bell, but at least it reminded him of her.

The Man moved out of sight, toward his heart.

 

Bell froze, the yawning, gaping, hypnotic abyss on either side of her pulling at her mind, calling forth images of falling, slipping, seeing the ground race toward her—

—that didn’t quite cut through the images of Men, of Bard and Sigrid, of Thorin.

She wasn’t sure whether the screaming in her mind was hers or Erebor’s, now.

Or both.

She only knew, she knew, she knew the stone would split and crack if she moved, would send her falling, like Thorin into the pit—

And she remembered when he’d helped her.

—but there were no wings to catch her this time.

She couldn’t breathe.

 

Movement caught Frerin’s eye past the Man, a figure too tiny and too colorful to be anyone but Bell—

—the Man raised the Arrow—

—Bell wasn’t moving—

—with all the force he could muster, Frerin called out.

 

A noise broke Alfrid’s concentration, nearly made him think someone else was there.

 

A noise broke through Bell’s terror-drowned mind, pulled her attention to the end of the platform, to—

 

[“](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/none-shall-live/983825492?i=983826725)THORIN!”

Bifur stopped mid-word; that had been Bell, he was sure, but he’d never, never, heard her so desperate. Harshly, he ordered the Man on; he couldn’t understand the words, but Bifur didn’t doubt he understood him perfectly.

 

Thorin’s name tore from Bell’s throat, terrified and raw and rough, and she might have expected to taste blood if she’d had room for any thought but ( _gettohimsavehimnohecan’tdiebeforeItellhim_ )

She wasn’t conscious of moving, only of Thorin, of Alfrid, growing larger and closer as the platform shrank under her feet. Alfrid snarled, but she barely saw him until—

 

Alfrid snarled as Bell (of course she’d come, the little—) raced forward, one hand outstretched as though to stop him. Sneering at her pathetic efforts, he plunged the Arrow down—

 

Thorin twisted around to follow the voice (it couldn’t be her, she was gone, but it was), dodging the Arrow by chance more than anything else, and then only watched.

That was her, that was Bell, she’d come back, why was she back, why had she put herself in danger, why, why—

 

Before Bell was close enough to do a thing, Alfrid growled and struck out, slicing a clean line in Thorin’s side, and she screamed as he roared—

 

As the twinned cries echoed through the halls, Tilda gave up on stealth and bolted after her Da and sister, Bain keeping pace with her, face drawn.

 

Before the echoes had faded, Bell reached Alfrid. She didn’t slow, didn’t think, just ran straight into him, pushing him with all the force she could muster, hard enough to send him back, send him tripping over Frerin’s feet—

 

Frerin tried to move, to help, but could only watch as the vile Man lurched upright again, expression more animalistic than Thorin’s had ever been.

 

—but why wasn’t Frerin moving, why weren’t any of them—

Alfrid lurched toward her again; she jolted back, but not quickly enough—

 

The Man struck Bell full across the face, hard enough to send a _crack_ through the chamber, hard enough to send her flying back, nearly hard enough to send her over the edge—

Thorin roared, and swiped—

 

Alfrid barely dodged the rash swipe, and darted forward—

 

Bell slid to a stop inches from the edge, close enough to see half how far a fall it was, and looked back—

 

Thorin wasn’t fast enough to stop the Man—

 

The Arrow sank into Thorin’s side, nearly to the hilt, and Bell didn’t think of the drop as he roared, she only pushed herself to her feet and charged—

 

A tiny weight took Alfrid out at the knees—

 

His head impacted the stone with a resounding _crack_ , twice as loud as the strike that was making her cheek throb, but she couldn’t regret it, not when Thorin—

 

Frerin tried to warn Bell, but his voice was spent—

 

A familiar grip closed around her arm, and she screamed as the pressure whited out her vision. A familiar voice swore at her, using all the words she’d never once heard the Company use in any language. A familiar face was the first thing she saw, red and purple and blood-streaked.

Spittle flew from Alfrid’s mouth as he called her every vile name under the sun; she knew what she was doing, and she already didn’t regret it—

 

Thorin cracked his eyes open despite the agony pulsing from his side, just in time to see Bell kick out, evidently aiming for the Man’s soft spot, but only succeeded in striking his thigh.

 

Alfrid yelled, the pain only heightening his need to make her pay, make her scream, make her—

 

His other hand closed around her throat, and she fought. She clawed and kicked and struggled, and a moment later, she was free and stumbling back. He followed her swiftly, eyes crazed. She aimed another strike at his hands as he reached for her again, but he dodged and grabbed for her—

 

She jerked back, one step too far, and Alfrid grinned as her expression changed to one of abject terror.

 

A shrill, terrified scream ripped through the halls.

Sigrid redoubled her pace.

 

Bell caught herself, barely, both hands and one forearm over the edge of the platform; the rest of her dangled helplessly over the void as Alfrid stepped closer. A tiny, hysterical part of her mind thanked Eru she’d been working with her hands so much in recent months.

The rest of her mind couldn’t think for terror.

 

Alfrid sneered down at her. “Not above me now, are you? Not so high and mighty, not so superior. You’ll die like anyone else, halfling. Like your precious beast.”

 

Bell’s mind silenced for an instant, a thunderclap in reverse.

 

Alfrid laughed as her eyes fixed on his, wide and panicked and desperate. “Swear you won’t run and maybe I’ll save you. ‘Course, it’s not free. You’ll owe me a very, very, large favor.”

 

The instant of clarity was enough for her to gather her wits, to understand his meaning.

That was a line she’d never cross, a price too high.

She’d rather die.

 

Alfrid raised his brows. “Well?” It wasn’t as though he’d save her in any case, but he wanted to hear her beg.

He wanted her on her knees before him, literally or figuratively.

“I’m wait—”

 

He shifted closer as he spoke, just close enough to bump into her forearm, and she didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed his ankle and yanked.

[He](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/calamity/559857080?i=559857284) was gone before she could see his expression, but somehow she kept her one-handed grip, though she tipped to the side so she had no choice but to look down, to see him shrinking in the dark, and all-too-easily, she could imagine how it felt—

Her grip weakened—

An instinctive, desperate, half-cry, half-sob tore from her throat—

 

Thorin couldn’t hold back an agonized roar as the movement sent pain shooting through him—

 

Bard stopped involuntarily at the sound of the dragon, Sigrid doing much the same beside him, but it was the strangled sob Bifur let out that spurred him into motion again, and they crested the staircase just in time to see the dragon lower its tail to Bell.

 

Bell latched onto Thorin’s tail like the lifeline it was, one hand clenched around the thin line of muscle and bone, the other still holding onto the edge. She wasn’t strong enough to haul herself up on her own, but he took enough of her weight for her to manage it, but a sob wracked her as he came into view.

 

Bain almost ran straight into his Da, despite how still he was standing; Tilda did run into Sigrid. Following his Da’s eyes, he saw Bell pulling herself up away from a dizzying drop, and his breath froze in his lungs.

 

Thorin’s face was contorted in agony, the Arrow still embedded in his side, not close enough to his heart to kill him straightaway, but there were black veins spreading from it, already too far for removing the source to do any good. The slash a few feet to the side was weeping blood, but she didn’t pay any mind to the puddle as she scrambled through it to him.

“Thorin!” She was almost afraid to touch him, but some of the agony left his face as sheran her hands over his cheeks, so she let herself half-collapse on him, the tears she’d had no time for earlier now soaking them both.

His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Heh. Never tol’ you my name.”

A broken parody of a laugh left her. “I had to guess, you idiot. Or—” She faltered, thinking of half-remembered dreams. “Or I knew— I don’t know, but I can’t guess everything—” A soundless epithet finished the sentence, but she couldn’t muster the strength to repeat it.

Thorin took a shuddering breath, wincing as it moved his injuries. “Don’t underestimate yours—self—”

He broke off with a groan, and the sound pulled at Bell’s heart. “No—” She cut herself off; there was nothing she could do to stop this. But the guilt and remorse pulsing through her only made the heartache worse. “This is all my fault, they only came because of me,” she apologized through her tears.

She didn’t regret saving her father, and she didn’t regret saving Bard, but if she just hadn’t put on the mithril, or if she’d buttoned her jacket over it, Alfrid never would have seen fit to storm the mountain. Breath coming in shallow pants, Thorin did his best to hold her eyes, though she could see his were unfocused. “Maybe it— it’s better—”

“Don’t you dare say that—”

“I don’t want to be a monster, Gabshelê.” The quiet, plaintive utterance stole away all her righteous anger; it left her with nothing but grief, and she shoved it away, for fear of losing herself in the depths.

“You aren’t a monster, you aren’t, and you’ll show them,” she couldn’t quite hold his eyes, instead brushing invisible dust off his spines, pretending she could see anything more than blurs of color, “you’ll be fine, you’ll be the greatest king Erebor’s ever seen—”

Her voice was steadily creeping higher, growing thicker, trembling more; he only cut her off in a near-whisper, but it was loud enough for her to hear the sardonic edge. “’S not hard.”

The attempt at humor only pushed her closer to losing control entirely; desperately, she grasped at the shreds she had left. “Stop— stop that— you’re fine—”

He had to be fine, he had to live, because if he didn’t— if he didn’t—

“Please— forgive me—”

Some distant part of her mind heard shuffling footsteps growing closer, but all she could focus on was the man before her, the man who blamed himself forbloody everything unpleasant under the sun—

“There’s nothing to forgive, Thorin! Everything I’ve done, it was willingly.” Laying her hands on either side of his face, she only wished he was at a different angle, so she could press her forehead to his. Failing that, she held his eyes, knowing what she was about to say was impossibly selfish, but unable to hold anything back when it could be the last chance to say it. “Don’t leave me.”

She’d barely whispered it; his response was no louder. “Order me to live, th— then. I’ll obey. I’ll try. Would’ve spe— spent a lifetime—”

Try as she did, she could force no strength into her response. She had none to spare. “You will, you’re not dying, you can’t b—” Her voice caught; he was too still. “Th—” He wasn’t moving. “No, Tho—” The last of her strength gave out, and she fell forward, one hand clutching at his fins like a lifeline, burying her face against his cheek, letting her tears soak him even as her mind screamed denials.

He couldn’t be dead, but he was.

He couldn’t be gone, but he was.

She hadn’t told him.

Of all the things she should’ve done, she should’ve told him, she should’ve—

She should’ve—

A tiny, barely noticed nudge from a dim corner of her mind reminded her, _you can still say it. It’s not too late to say it._

She couldn’t bring herself to draw away from him, even to wipe her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him again, not from any distance, not from far enough away to see— to see—

She couldn’t bring herself to clear her throat. She couldn’t bring herself to say it above a whisper. She couldn’t even bring herself to question why the Khuzdûl leapt so naturally forward. In the end, it was barely even audible, a tiny, tear-choked plea for him to hear her, “Mabinagarrathûn, maralmizu.” A sob caught in her throat, but even so, she repeated, “I love you.”

[And](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/never-give-up-on-your-dreams/1287310003?i=1287310012) she wept.

If there was anyone else present, she didn’t hear them. If she heard anyone, she ignored them.

Nothing mattered but that her heart had bled out before her eyes, and she hadn’t even told him before it was too late.

The first thing that broke through her grief wasn’t one of the people present. It was a pulse of energy that sent her sliding back a handful of feet.

Shocked cries sounded behind her and beyond Thorin, but—

She knew that energy. She knew that magic.

Her eyes had snapped open at the pulse, and as the light faded from everywhere but Thorin, she raised her hands to her face, hardly sure she was awake, and felt that her face was dry; she couldn’t look away entirely from the spectacle before her, but with her legs outstretched before her, she could see that Thorin’s blood had been similarly removed from her lower half.

But Thorin—

It wasn’t that Thorin was glowing, it was that he was encased in light, in a riotous dance of sun- and starlight in the heart of a mountain—

Hands latched onto her arms and hauled her to her feet, away from him, but she didn’t fight them until they tried to block her view.

She knew this magic.

But how—

Another backwards-thunderclap called forth a memory, of standing in a nothing-space, feeling this same magic—

Dreams. She’d been having dreams of this magic, dreams caused by this magic, woven by this magic, for months, and she’d never remembered—

—and in the treasury, the feeling that had called her there—

—and sunlight in a mountain, how long had she been noticing it—

Another pulse of light burst out, this time carrying a wave of warmth with it, like standing in the sunlight, like sitting by the fire, like being held by—

She could just see Thorin’s shape through the glow, but that wasn’t right, it was changing, he was changing—

—his wings shrank into nothing, his tail following suit—

—his limbs shortened and straightened—

—his spines faded away, replaced with hair—

She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t verbalize it, couldn’t even understand it, but the more Thorin’s form shrank, the more her heart raced and swelled and filled her to the brim with an overwhelming joy—

She knew this new shape, she didn’t know how— didn’t know why— didn’t know when—

—but she knew him.

Distantly, she registered movement past him, clanking shapes, big and small, beginning to move in earnest, but she barely noticed, too focused on—

The glow faded in a moment and an hour— seeming to take an eternity even as she could swear it was over in a single heartbeat— leaving a far, far smaller figure behind.

He was facing the other way, lying on his side, and pushed unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself on the throne—

—she knew him, she didn’t know how, but she knew him—

—then froze, before raising his hand to his face as though he’d never seen it before, running the other through his soil-black hair and over his fine clothes. With every second he stood, his stance strengthened, and when he turned a few seconds later, it was with the bearing of a king—

—he scanned over the faces, brow creased, before looking to her—

—she looked into blue-jay eyes—

—he smiled like the dawn, like the end of night, the end of winter—

—she knew him—

—the joy in her heart snapped into place, and she knew him, her Diarmait, her Mabinagarrathûn, her husband, her Thorin—

—and she was in his arms before she knew she’d moved.

He cradled her to him carefully, as though he was afraid she’d break; she clung onto him half-afraid he’d disappear; after a moment, they drew back at the same instant, only just far enough to meet the other’s eyes, and there was no need for questions.

The joy she felt was only matched by that in his eyes, and she pulled him down, pulled his forehead against hers; he let loose a low breath, as though he hadn’t been able to breathe until that moment, and she did much the same. She felt much the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, no cliffhanger for this one. Just a happy ending. Next chapter is everyone's reactions and the epilogue; I may or may not post it early.  
> Notes: 1) 'Gabshelê' means 'my wealth of all wealths', or 'fortune', or 'treasure'. 2) *sings* 'Yes, Cosette, forbid me now to die, I'll obey. I will try.' (Seriously, if Les Mis doesn't make you cry, you don't have a heart.) 3) The Khuzdûl she speaks is his name, then 'I love you'. (I had to cobble his name together myself, since I couldn't find anything in the dictionary I liked. If I did it right, it means 'he who continues to be without greed'.)  
> À bientôt!


	32. November 8, 2934, pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY! THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO GO UP YESTERDAY! HERE YOU GO!

Bard watched, heart in his throat, as Bell embraced the stranger like an old friend— no, like—

Like a lover. The term made him queasy, but seeing the love in the man’s eyes, in her casual affection for him, he couldn’t find fault with the sentiment.

For a moment, it looked as though they’d kiss; all at the same moment, he took in a breath to protest his having to see it, Tilda asked what they were doing, and Bell’s head turned to the side, away from the Dwarf’s lips and away from where Bard stood with his children.

The Dwarf’s brow creased. “Bell?”

Bard’s brows shot up; higher, slightly, not half as resonant, but that was the dragon’s voice. He hadn’t been entirely sure, since magic could just as easily swap out people as turn someone from one thing to another, especially as the light had been too bright to see any of what had happened, but that was the dragon’s voice.

The dragon was a Dwarf, just as Bell had said.

Huh.

Sigrid repeated the Dwarf’s question, and Bell held up a hand. “Shush. Do you hear that?”

Bard met the Dwarf’s— Thorin’s eyes, somewhat relieved to see the same concern there that he felt. “Hear what?”

She shushed him. Thorin’s frown deepened. “Bell, talk to me. What’s happening?”

For a moment, the only answer she gave was a shake of her head; then, with a slight exclamation as though she’d figured something out, she took a step toward the throne.

Thorin’s eyes bugged, and he pulled her to a halt. “No— That thing—”

“Has done nothing on its own.” Calmly, Bell looked up into the Dwarf’s face, reaching up to cup his cheek with a smile. “It’s a long story and I only know half of it, love, but I’ll tell you everything in a minute.”

She took another step toward the throne; Thorin moved with her, swearing in the same language as Bifur spoke. “The last time you touched it, you vanished!”

Meeting his eyes again, Bell raised a brow. “Do you trust me?”

“Not with that!”

She snorted. “Well, it’s not going to be much of a partnership if you don’t let me have any say.”

“Which goes the other way, Gabshelê! That—”

“Thorin.” He stilled despite his obvious panic, watching her. “We’ve discussed this. Male, female; young, old; Hobbit, Dwarf. I know more than I did then. Trust me.”

Eyes stormy, he leaned down to press their foreheads together, screwing his eyes shut as though he was trying to block something out. He took a shuddering breath, then let it slowly out, and quietly vowed, “With my mountain.”

Smiling fondly, she traced a hand along the length of his arm and onto his torso, “Your mountain,” her hand settled on the left side of his chest, “my heart.”

A bark of a laugh left him, and he opened his eyes with a besotted grin. “It’s always been yours.”

“You’re right,” smiling fondly at him, she stepped away and toward the throne, “it has.”

For the first time, Bard noticed the shining stone that rested on the seat, a scant instant before her fingers came in contact with it, and then he couldn’t look away from her eyes.

Her glowing, dancing, iridescent eyes.

 

Thorin let out a slow, awed breath as her eyes changed, taking on the Arkenstone’s glow. Smirking, she turned to him and raised a brow. “Now do you see?”

For a moment, he could only shake his head, still stunned. Something clicked into place in his mind, and he realized, “Your story— the mountain’s heart—”

She beamed more brightly than her eyes. “—and the mountain’s voice. It—” She broke off, glancing at nothing, and huffed, half-smiling. “Speaking of…”

“Of what?”

Thorin glanced at the girl, clearly the youngest of the Bardlings. “Tilda, isn’t it?”

Abruptly, Bell grinned. “Perfect!”

Before Thorin could ask what on Arda she was talking about, the boy, Bain, did so first. “You don’t mean the mountain literally has a voice, do you?”

Bell looked to him, eyes soft. “Have you ever known me to exaggerate? Now, before this goes any further…” Her eyes fell to Bifur, and she smiled at Thorin. “There’s still half a curse left, isn’t there?”

Guilt pierced Thorin as he realized he’d forgotten about his Company in all the rush, but before he could say a word, Bell’s eyes and the Arkenstone brightened in unison, and a wave of light spread from them. Unlike the previous light, it passed through him without affecting him in the slightest, but a chorus of shouts proved he was in the minority.

 

Bard stumbled back with a shout, wrenching his children back with him, as his hand suddenly held a wild-eyed Dwarf with metal buried in his head. Thorin turned to him reflexively and grinned at the sight. “Bifur!”

The Dwarf rushed to Thorin and the two of them jabbered at each other in their language; while they did, another Dwarf rushed to Bell and spun her around, laughing.

“Bofur!” Laughing, she hit him until he let her down, and she pushed him with a smile toward a star-haired Dwarf. “I’m not the one you should be happy to see.”

“Nori!” ‘Nori’s’ laugh as Bofur rushed forward was decidedly female, so Bard wasn’t quite as shocked as he might have been when they kissed. He did, however, cover Tilda’s eyes (while Sigrid did the same with Bain) when they evidently forgot there were children present.

 

Bombur wrinkled his nose and looked away from his brother and future-sister-in-law’s display, which was why he saw the much quieter reunion taking place half-hidden by the throne.

Frerin’s eyes were wide as he looked at the redhead in front of him; Bombur had forgotten how pale his hair was. Ori blushed, looking back at Frerin; Bombur had remembered that well enough; she’d barely gone a day without turning pink during the Quest. Frerin gaped at her for a few moments, until her expression firmed and she moved forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. Drawing back, she fiddled with her sweater and murmured, faux-casually, “I’ve been wanting to do that for more than fifty years.”

Joy dawning over his face, Frerin leaned down to kiss her softly on the lips; she caught hold of his shirt as he tried to draw back and pressed her forehead against his. He smiled. “I’ve been wanting to do that for nearly twenty years.”

Her blush deepened, but she smiled widely, and Bombur turned away with a smile of his own, giving them a bit of privacy before their families missed them.

Just as he turned, Balin and Dwalin braced themselves on the other’s forearms and crashed their heads together; just past them, he saw Bell wince violently.

 

Bell resisted the urge to rub her own head, barely. “I swear, I’m never going to understand Dwarves.”

Erebor chuckled softly. _“And yet you love them anyway.”_

Watching the Company as they not only saw themselves as they truly were, but were able to look to the future for the first time in more than fifty years, Bell smiled. “Yeah, I do. Every one of them.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**October 13th, 2936**

 

Bell wiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, glad for the scarf keeping her hair off her face. Despite the plummeting temperatures as October crawled on, her work in the farms and orchards was still enough for her to work up a sweat.

That was the main reason any of the Dwarves of Erebor accepted her as Queen, as a matter of fact. When they’d begun returning from the Iron Hills, hot on the heels of Daín’s confirmation of Thorin’s identity and Erebor’s reclamation, they’d seen her as nothing more than a grasping, greedy, o-Khazad. She’d had to talk Thorin, Bifur, and Nori out of challenging them to duels more than a few times, but once spring came and she was able to begin working in earnest, the few Dwarves who’d volunteered to assist her had spread the word that she was as much a master of her craft as any Dwarf. And then there’d been a mine collapse and her work with the healers proved her mastery of her true craft.

Not that Daín had stopped taking jabs at her being a ‘gardener’. Every time he did, she called him a ‘pig-rider’. That usually prompted him to mock her height, which led to her sniping at how many of ‘his’ people had abandoned him, which generally marked the beginning of as childish a game of insults as two adults could manage.

She grinned to think of it. He really did remind her of some of her Took cousins. Not half as subtle, of course, or as clever, but fun nonetheless.

A wave of longing swept through her. They’d received word in the spring that some of her cousins had agreed to Erebor’s proposal to have them come and assist in the land’s recovery, and Dís had sent word that their party would collect the Hobbits on the way to the Misty Mountains, but there’d been no word since. She didn’t know exactly who was coming, and it would be another week before they arrived, unless their journey was more difficult than expected, in which case it could be more than a month.

She loved Thorin, and she loved Erebor and all the Dwarves in her, and she had her father, of course, but it had been a bit over twelve years since she’d seen any other Hobbits. It was easier, living in a Dwarven Kingdom rather than among Tall Folk, but still. She missed her people, and she missed their culture.

Wiping her forehead again, she straightened up and looked over her progress. Erebor had pointed her to a type of tree in the forest, with fruit she was privately referring to as ‘Eastern Gooseberries’. The saplings she’d nearly finished planting wouldn’t fully sprout until spring, but it was something to do, and further progress toward Erebor’s agricultural independence.

For the time being, and probably for several decadesmore, they still had no choice but to import most of their food from Lake-town and Mirkwood. She’d had enough of depending on either of them, and Thorin and Bard had no more fondness for those particular groups of Men and Elves than she did.

Eyes drifting to the river just within sight, she smiled as she took a drink from her water-flask, thinking of their temporary return to her temporary home. Thorin had had the idea to have a few of the Company craft a makeshift boat while Bell and a few others had gathered food for the group, and the trip hadn’t even taken a full day, going downstream with half a dozen Dwarves on the oars, speeding them further. They’d strode in, bold as brass, collected Bungo, put a few of the Guards in their place, and washed their hands of Lake-town, apart from trade, which Balin and Ori handled for her.

The return trip, going upstream, had taken quite a bit longer, though Bifur, Dwalin, and Frerin had insisted that she and her father stay in the boat while the others took turns walking alongside.

Hobbits truly were absurdly light compared to Dwarves, but even so, she never would have agreed if her father hadn’t also tried to insist on walking. He’d been safe enough in Lake-town, but they hadn’t been eating well for years. She wasn’t going to let him risk his health. Not when she’d only just gotten him back.

He’d recovered well since then, though. She knew not to hope for too much, he was eighty-five, after all, but she didn’t doubt he’d see their family’s arrival at the mountain.

Speaking of…

She shaded her eyes, scanning the horizon for the movement that had caught her eye. It was only a moment before she located it again, and she grinned. They were a ways off yet, but those were definitely Dwarves, and the smaller figures weren’t proportioned right to be children.

For a moment, she considered meeting them halfway, but there was no way to know whether this was Dís and the rest of Thorin’s family, or only an advance group, especially as they weren’t expecting them for another week. Besides, she didn’t have much planting left. She could probably finish before they met her, and even if her cousins wanted to stay and look at the plants for a few minutes, the Dwarves wouldn’t. They’d want to go straight to the mountain, whether to reunite with long-lost family or inform the King of his sister’s imminent arrival.

Thorin had told her about Dís, and shown her even more, as the dreams hadn’t stopped, only slowed to one or two a week since their marriage. True, it had been more than fifty years since he’d seen her, but from how he’d described her, Bell couldn’t imagine Dís being anything less than incredible. She’d been as skilled a leader as him, and an even better administrator, hence why she’d stayed in Ered Luin to manage their people’s affairs there while Thorin and Frerin set out on the Quest.

In some ways, Bell couldn’t help but think that she and Dís were a bit alike. They’d both seen horrors in their youth, though one was born of ice and the other fire, they’d lost their mothers relatively young, they’d traveled halfway across Middle-Earth to find a new home, and they both knew how impossible ruling Dwarves could be. And Dís had so much more experience— nearly sixty years to Bell’s two— there was so much she could teach her.

And that wasn’t even taking the boys into account! Though, ‘boys’ likely wouldn’t be the right word anymore; they were both legally adults now, and undoubtably taller than her.

Everything was going to change. Bell didn’t mind; she’d have been bored silly in Lake-town if it hadn’t been for how miserable she was. Hobbits didn’t typically like change, which only served to prove she was as much of a Took as her mother; Tooks did tend to be the exception to everything. Life in Erebor had just begun to settle into a pattern, and now everything was going to change.

She couldn’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again about that, yesterday was a weird day.  
> Now, for the story itself, this is going to be the end for now. I do have ideas for the sequel, but I ship out in less than three weeks, so I really can't make any promises about when it'll be posted, if ever. But it'll be under a different name, anyway, so this is officially the end of Redamancy. Hope you enjoyed it. (^u^)


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